


Every Monster, First a Man

by giddytf2



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: (But NOT Clint/Phil and only briefly alluded to a few times), (Depending on your thoughts on crime and justice), Alpha Phil, Alpha Phil Coulson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Traits, Animalistic, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BAMF Clint, BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Phil, BAMF Phil Coulson, Babies, Backstory, Biting, Blood and Torture, Body Image, Body Modification, Bonding, Bottom Clint, Bottom Clint Barton, Childbirth, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Consensual, Consensual Sex, Consensual Violence, Dark Phil, Dark Phil Coulson, Discussion of Infertility, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Growling, Hurt/Comfort, Knotting, Knotting Dildos, M/M, Made For Each Other, Major Character Injury, Marking, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Morning Sickness, Mpreg, Murder, Murder Husbands, Mutual Pining, Nick Fury is a Good Bro, Non-Linear Narrative, OTP Feels, Omega Clint, Omega Clint Barton, Phil Coulson Needs a Hug, Poor Clint, Poor Clint Barton, Possessive Behavior, Post Mpreg, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, Protective Phil, Protective Phil Coulson, Purring, Rimming, Rough Sex, Roughhousing, Soul Bond, Top Phil, Top Phil Coulson, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-19 17:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 56,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5975313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giddytf2/pseuds/giddytf2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Oh</i>, Clint thinks when he sees Phil for the first time in Fury’s office on board the Helicarrier, <i>it’s you, the one I never thought I’d find and found anyway</i>.</p><p>(Or, Omega!Clint and Alpha!Coulson in a dark,  Alpha/Beta/Omega world of fangs, claws, purring and snarling, who somehow find and fall in love with each other anyway while a monster from Clint's past returns and threatens to rob him of everything he loves.</p><p>And if you're not into MPREG, you can read Acts I and II as a complete story!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ACT I

**Author's Note:**

> After coming across the Alpha/Beta/Omega primer here on AO3, I was intrigued enough by the concept to write an A/B/O Clint/Coulson story. Along the way, it turned out more violent, dark, animalistic and angsty than I'd intended at first, but it feels somehow _right_ given the nature of A/B/O dynamics. (At least to me as of writing this.) If you're wondering why Clint and Coulson (and every other person) in the story have fangs and claws, snarl and purr and behave cat-like sometimes, it's just my personal twist on A/B/O traits. 
> 
> Please heed the tags. I am serious when I say this story is pretty damn dark in certain parts and has graphic depictions of violence, torture and mutilation. (You familiar with NBC's Hannibal? Then you know what I'm talking about.) The underage tag is only there to be safe since it refers mainly to Clint's and Coulson's sexual self-discovery as very young teens. And yep, there's also MPREG. If you don't mind being spoiled and want to check for potential triggers, I've listed them out in the End Notes. 
> 
> The Swordsman AKA Jacques Duquesne and Trick Shot AKA Buck Chisholm appear in the story, but they are _way_ darker and evil here. So if you're a fan of their official characters, I ... think you may be squeamish about them here, particularly the Swordsman. Coulson may be darker than some fans like too, but I will leave that to your discretion. You may also notice the other Avengers don't show up in the story - I wanted to focus solely on Clint and Coulson and their relationship over time. 
> 
> The soundtrack I listened to while writing Act ! was [NBC Hannibal's Red Dinner](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vn3ABpCNJrs), the track used in the season 2 finale's last scene. Exquisite and haunting. For Act II, it was [Pie Jesu, From Requiem](http://hannibalsmusic.tumblr.com/post/121341785792/hannibalsmusic-hungry-skin-vacant-meat). A sublime song. For Act III, it was Michael Nyman's [Scent of Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wCvquy_BXeU), one of my all-time favorite piano pieces.

**ACT I:**

 

What Clint will remember most after he awakens in the Helicarrier’s medical bay, with Phil gripping his hand like a limp lifeline, is how hot his blood had felt as it cascaded in a torrent onto barren ground from his ripped open belly.

 

 <<< >>>

 

“So yeah, I’m an Omega,” Clint says, head tipped back slightly, lips tensed into a combative line. “You gonna make something of that, sir?”

Coulson stares at the other SHIELD agent across his desk. He’s tempted, very tempted to say, _yes, and you and everything about you are going to consume me whole, and I will embrace my destruction and rebirth in your hands_.

What he says instead, with an impassive face, is, “Do you _want_ me to make something of it?”

Because it isn’t enough that he’s an Alpha. He has to go and provoke the most dangerous, skillful, _gorgeous_ Omega on the Helicarrier (in the whole fucking world) too, an Omega he’s only known for months (a lifetime, it feels like a lifetime already). Hormones make him stupid like that sometimes. (Love makes him even more stupid, but that’s something he only learns later, with a stupid smile on his face and a stupid ring that Clint slides onto his finger and tightens around his _stupid_ heart.)

Clint’s face goes slack with surprise. Clint blinks, like a soaring, large bird that’s just sighted movement in the snow far below and thinks to itself, _today, I will not go hungry_.

“Well, sir,” Clint says, and oh, Coulson will be hearing Clint’s voice gone low and husky like that in many night-cloaked fantasies to come. “You can _try_.”

He is tempted, _very_ tempted to leap to his feet and toss said desk aside (and he’s done this several times, for completely different reasons, to the chagrin of SHIELD’s purchasing _and_ cleanup departments) and tackle Clint to the floor. During the annual Mating Hunt - if Coulson is to participate this year, if Clint participates as well (please, god) - that’s the least of what he’ll have to do to earn his right to be Clint’s Alpha. Clint’s _mate_.

Is he going to try?

Fuck, _yes_.

Without breaking eye contact, he sends the plastic bottle of heat suppressant pills across his (spared) desk back to Clint with a flick of his fingers. Clint catches it with his left hand and palms it. He sees Clint’s lips tremor for a moment before straightening again.

It’ll be worth casting aside his person-suit, worth letting the _beast_ out once more to feel those supple lips against his and upon his flesh.

“You’ve been working for SHIELD for years now. You _know_ we have strict regulations against discrimination towards Omegas. The only reason we’re having this conversation at all is because you hid your status when you should have reported it. Especially to me, your handler.”

 _Especially an Alpha like me_ , he thinks _, who would give you the heads of your foes upon a silver platter, if you only asked_.

Clint fidgets with the bottle with both hands, eyes half-lidded and simmering as they continue to stare at him.

“The only reason?”

Coulson sits back languidly. Draws in a deep breath tangible with Clint’s delicious scent and subdued Omegan pheromones - not masked by the Beta scent cologne for once - and already has to restrain himself from ordering Clint to dispose of the suppressants, to prepare for the Hunt. To get down on all fours on the floor, right here, right now and spread those muscular thighs and prepare for _him_.

“Yes,” he replies, his face as impassive as ever.

Again, Clint’s lips tremor for a moment.

Coulson wants to bite them until they bleed. Until they’re tremoring for wholly different reasons, parted and letting loose high-pitched whimpers and loud moans as he fucks Clint’s slick, tight hole hard and fast.

 _Yes_.

“All right, sir. Can I go now?”

The little shit is _grinning_ at him.

He should _not_ be feeling as amused as he is about it.

He waves Clint off and deliberately doesn’t watch Clint strut away in that _snug_ Hawkeye outfit, turning his attention to the intimidating pile of folders and paperwork on the right side of his desk. No, he is not going to look at Clint’s ass and no, he is _not_ going to think about Clint’s plump, firm ass and all the ways he _hungers_ to fuck it. No.

“Sir?”

Coulson raises his head to find Clint at the now half-open door of his office, one gloved hand on its steel knob, looking down at the carpeted floor with a bowed head. It’s such a switch from his cocksure attitude mere minutes ago that Coulson does a double take and sits straighter, drinking in the submissiveness of Clint’s pose.

The beast in him clamors within its human-shaped cage for freedom to _claim_ this Omega.

 _Sshh_ , Coulson soothes, _soon, soon_.

“The Hunt’s coming up in a month,” Clint murmurs, still looking down at the floor.

Coulson says nothing until Clint glances at him again.

“Yes,” he murmurs as softly, gazing into Clint’s bright, blue eyes. “I know.”

He says nothing else as he watches Clint nod and then stride out of his office, shutting the door behind him. He says nothing about how flushed Clint had become at his reply, from forehead to chin, about how Clint’s broad chest had puffed up with a visible, deep inhalation before Clint left.

He hopes Clint won’t be forgetting his scent anytime soon. He hopes Clint will be jerking himself off tonight in his quarters, thrusting those long, callused fingers into a quivering, _desperate_ hole and thinking of _him_ while he does so.

Alone in his office, Coulson lets his fangs show and gleam in a grin of unbridled anticipation.

 

 <<< >>>

 

Clint feels so fucking _stupid_ for the wetness flooding his eyes, his face, but he can’t stop it. It’s probably the drugs in his veins right now, making his brain incapable of thinking, making his body lose control so pathetically like this, making him _embarrass_ himself in front of Phil like this.

“I never even wanted kids,” he says almost incoherently, trying to cover his searing eyes with a trembling hand, feeling the sting of the IV in his forearm. “I didn’t - I - What’s _wrong_ with me?”

He lets Phil move his hand away from his streaked, contorted face. He lets Phil grasp it and kiss the back of it and he can’t think, he wants to yank out the IV and cleanse his blood and body of all the _drugs_ in him although this time the drugs are the _merciful_ kind. (Not the kind _they_ dosed him with all those years ago, no, never again.) The kind that are keeping physical pain at bay. The kind that’ll help him forget, even just for a while, that his body’s been irreversibly _maimed_.

“What he did to you,” Phil says quietly, carefully, holding his hand to a bristly cheek that hasn’t been shaved in days, “was traumatic, sweetheart. You have every right to be upset and angry at the damage caused, even if it’s your choice to not have children.”

Clint blinks once, then another time as he stares up at the plaster ceiling of his med bay room. His eyes keep filling up.

“S’not even the first time I’ve been stabbed,” he whispers, and he still feels so stupid and he _gets_ what Phil is trying to say. He just doesn’t believe it. How can he, when what happened to him _is_ his own fault?

The cycle of vengeance doesn’t give a fuck who’s the good guy or the bad guy. It doesn’t give a fuck who started it. All it gives a fuck about is how much suffering it can dole out to everyone, until everyone’s dead.

And the fucking bastard who started it, who _did_ this to him is still alive in SHIELD custody.

The cycle isn’t appeased yet. Not by a long shot.

Someone still has to die, and if there’s any higher power that truly exists out there, if he ever does believe in it, he’ll pray that it won’t be him or Phil. (Prayer’s never worked yet for him, but for Phil, for _Phil_ , he’ll try again.)

Clint hears Phil sigh, feels it as a brush of warm breath upon the back of his hand. He smells and breathes in the familiar Alpha pheromones that Phil’s scent glands are pumping out, and they comfort him, assuage him.

It’s still not enough to make him forget the stitched-up, bandaged wound marring his lower abdomen in a horizontal, straight line.

There’s probably nothing that ever will.

“Dr. Chiew said it’s too soon to judge the long-term effects of your injuries. She also said there’s still a chance you can have children later on.”

Clint continues to stare up at the ceiling. He feels Phil’s lips upon the back of his hand again, and once more he has to blink his eyes, pressing his chapped lips together. An apology is threatening to bubble up his throat and spit itself out at Phil, an apology for being a _useless_ Omega mate now. There are laws that protect Omegas from being abandoned by their Alphas simply for infertility (although it took goddamn _centuries_ for them to pass on a global scale), and Phil will never do that to him, he knows that, _never_ , which make this sudden urge to _apologize_ all the more idiotic.

Still. Still, he feels as if he’s become … lesser. As if he ( _and_ Phil) has been _robbed_ of something infinitely precious.

“I never wanted kids,” he rasps, still staring at the ceiling. “I never imagined myself having any ‘cause I never thought I’d _live_ this long. I thought I was gonna die in Waverly that night. I thought every day after that was gonna be my last, and who thinks about _kids_ when they’re on the run and starving and stealing from people and they got no _home_?”

He sucks in a quavering breath, then turns his head to look at Phil with dark-ringed albeit clear eyes. Phil’s grasping his hand with both of his now to that bristly, handsome face, stroking the back of his fingers with a thumb. Phil’s eyes are dark-ringed too, heavy-lidded and bloodshot with exhaustion (and he’ll find out later that Phil had sat at his bedside for five days straight after the emergency surgery and had to be force-fed by _Fury_ by day two).

Phil is gazing at him with all the goddamn love in the universe, even now, and Clint has to curb himself from apologizing for being _unworthy_ of it.

“I never thought I had a future, Phil, until SHIELD crashed into my life and shot me in the thigh and wouldn’t let me go. Then I met you.” He swallows hard past a lump in his throat as he gazes back at Phil and squeezes Phil’s fingers. “Then I met you, and you changed everything and you _became_ home and after all these years, I still can’t imagine being anywhere else but with you. You asshole. I hate you.”

He sees Phil’s lips quirk up in that not-smile. He sees Phil’s eyes glistening even in the dimmed light of the hospital bed lamp.

“I hate you too,” Phil rasps in return, throat bobbing hard. “More than life itself.”

 

<<< >>>

 

 _Oh_ , Clint thinks when he sees Phil for the first time in Fury’s office on board the Helicarrier, _it’s you, the one I never thought I’d find and found anyway_.

 

<<< >>>

 

Clint has no regrets whatsoever about flushing away his heat suppressant pills, watching their white, oval shapes vanish in a whirlpool of clear water. (Although he’s definitely still using contraceptives, he’s not _that_ crazy.) He’d _hoped_ that Phil would find them, that Phil would be the first to learn of his Omega status and … do something about it.

He’s been _dying_ to be claimed by Phil since they met each other over five months ago.

He probably _will_ die from the bliss if Phil fucks him during his next heat. Dr. Chiew had told him that since he’s been on suppressants for almost twenty years - with only a handful of heats throughout those years - going off said suppressants will likely result in one _intense_ , prolonged heat that may last a week or more. And unlike the past handful of heats, an Alpha knotting him and coming inside him will be a necessity, not a mere option if he wants to remain sane and _alive_ at the end of it.

Good thing he already has someone very, _very_ suitable in mind for the job.

“The things I do for you, Coulson,” Clint murmurs, smiling to himself as he strips naked and gets ready for another night of fantasizing about his handler (his friend, his _Alpha_ ) and coming like a speeding freight train.

If what Myers told him is true, for the first time in almost _ten years_ , Phil will be participating in the Hunt again. The last time Phil had done that, Myers said, the Hunt had ended with Phil still unmated. But zealous rumors had abounded afterward, about Phil chasing after _several_ Omegas just for the thrill of it and fucking them all until their screams of pleasure echoed through the designated forests.

 _Apparently Coulson fucks like a champ_ , Myers said, grinning unabashedly. _We’re talking ‘fuck ‘til ya can’t walk anymore and roar the whole place down like some mega beast’ kinda champ. Most people won’t believe it now since he’s so calm and quiet, but I know one of the Omegas he fucked in that Hunt and that woman’s mated now and still says Coulson’s name with goddamn_ stars _in her eyes_.

Myers had no idea how close he’d come to getting an arrow through his eyeball if he’d said that _he_ was one of the Omegas Phil had fucked so _good_ like that.

After this year’s Hunt, he won’t let _anyone_ _else_ touch Phil again.

Phil is his. _His_ alone, goddamnit. He’ll rip their _faces_ off if they even _try_ to take Phil away from him (and it wouldn’t be the first time he’s done that, no, but he never talks about it, not even to the SHIELD shrink, not unless he wants to end up binge drinking whiskey and vodka for a week straight from the returning nightmares).

As he fucks himself with a knotted dildo on his bed, he thinks about Phil in that damn dark gray suit and purple tie, sitting behind his damn desk so _calm_ and _quiet_ when he’s a _champion at fucking Omegas into a frenzy_. He wants to drown in Phil’s rich, earthy, clean scent and _virile_ Alpha pheromones. He wants Phil’s cock, Phil’s _knot_ so bad. He wants something _real_ , something _permanent_ with Phil. He wants a _bond_ with Phil, he wants -

_So yeah, I’m an Omega. You gonna make something of it, sir?_

_Do you_ want _me to make something of it?_

“Yes,” Clint rasps against his pillow, his achingly hard cock in one hand and his other hand shoving the dildo in and out of his quivering, _desperate_ hole, remembering how _tasty_ Phil’s scent had been in Phil’s office. “Yes, Phil, god, _please claim me_ -”

He comes to the image, the fantasy ( _reality_ ) of Phil slamming a long, fat cock into him to the hilt and knotting him and _roaring_ at the heavens. He comes so hard that he blacks out for a minute, regaining consciousness to find his softening cock still in his fist and his needy hole still clenched tight around the dildo and his inner thighs drenched with slick. There’s semen all over his hand and his sheets and he’ll have to change them before falling asleep but _fuck_ , that was worth it.

“Two weeks,” he whispers to himself, “just two more weeks,” and then, alone in his quarters, Clint lets his fangs show and gleam in a grin of unbridled anticipation.

 

<<< >>>

 

“There are some things you don’t come back from, Cheese,” Nick says, and Coulson hears what Nick is _really_ saying him.

 _This is your last chance to back away, Phil. Becoming a devil to slay a devil is going to_ change _you_.

They stand side by side as they observe in person SHIELD’s latest and most notorious detainee being transfered into the SHIELD armored prisoner transport vehicle by four armed agents. No one looks at the chained detainee’s horribly disfigured face for long, not when it has two beady, black eyes that stare with a palpable, murderous malice.

For once, here be a monster with a truly honest face reflecting what remains of its dead soul.

“I know. But I’ve got a lifeline this time,” Coulson replies, staring right back at those beady, black, _hateful_ eyes, hoping his pheromones being pumped out by his scent glands in response to his Alpha _rage_ will reach and _choke_ the monster. “And he’s waiting for me to come home.”

They watch the transport vehicle drive off the compound as Nick says, “Then you make sure you go home when you’re done.”

 _And you let me deal with the cleanup_ , Coulson also hears. _You deal with coming out of this unscathed so_ you _can_ go home.

“I will, Nick,” Coulson says, thinking about his beloved mate who still has nightmares about the assault, who must always bear the long, irregular scar of it on a vulnerable lower belly. “I will.”

 

<<< >>>

 

Phil is almost fourteen years old when he develops his very first knot. It’s a late Saturday afternoon in Manitowoc, overcast and serene, just the kind of weather he likes. He’s in his bedroom upstairs while Dad is out with friends and Mom is downstairs in the kitchen preparing dinner, oblivious to him locking his door and drawing the curtains and then scrambling onto his bed with almost overwhelming, equal amounts of excitement and nervousness.

He pushes his jeans and underwear down to mid-thigh and tugs his t-shirt up. He has to bite his lower lip hard to not groan as he touches the knot at the base of his erect cock and squeezes his right hand around it. Holy shit, it feels so _good_. He squirms against his pillows and on the sheets, propped up against the headboard, allowing himself one tremulous moan as he strokes himself a few times and squeezes his knot again, this time with both hands.

Ben, an Alpha like him, told him about getting his first knot last year and how awesome it feels to jerk off while having one. Jason, who’s a Beta, told them Betas don’t get knots at all and that Betas can mate with anyone they choose (as long as the other person wants the bond too, of course). He and Ben had been astonished by that, having only been told by their parents about Alphas being able to mate only with Omegas and vice versa. Ben’s dad, an Alpha too, also told Ben that when an Alpha meets their fated Omega mate, they’ll just _know_.

And it’ll be one of the most _amazing_ things to happen to them. Ever.

 _Not only that_ , Ben had whispered to him, Jason and Zach (a Beta too) in the canteen during recess months ago, _my dad said it feels really,_ really _good when you put your knot inside an Omega! Like the_ best _thing_ ever!

So holy _shit_ , if just squeezing his knot with his hands already makes him want to blow like a geyser, what will it _feel_ like when he sticks his whole cock _and_ knot into the body of an Omega?

He’ll probably _die_ from the bliss. What a way to _go_ , though.

When he comes with his very first knot in hand, he has to smother his face with a pillow to stifle his groan. He won’t discover what it’s like to have sex with an Omega until six years later in The Point, in a one night stand that has him leaving the woman’s apartment the moment she falls asleep. He’s … disappointed by the experience. Possibly because he’d just wanted the act of losing his virginity to be over and done with. Because he’d hoped, in some way or another, that Ben - and all the other Alpha boys back in their high school class - had been right about sex being mind-blowing with an Omega, man or woman.

It turns out that he needs to cultivate a _relationship_ with an Omega (or Beta, although it’s very rare for him and never worked out) before sex will feel really good for him. He learns that the hard way over the years that turn into decades, over multiple relationships that fizzle out eventually, inevitably when he places his job above all else, be it as a Ranger or as a SHIELD agent later on. He learns that even when the sex does feel really good, it isn’t enough. He’s missing something vital, something that he can only find with an Omega mate who’s _fated_ to be his.

He needs that mythical, life-changing Alpha-Omega bond that everyone whispers about in a reverent tone, that can only be formed during a heat with an Omega who gives him explicit consent to do so, with a skin-breaking bite to the bonding gland in an Omega’s shoulder.

Isn’t it just his luck, then, that he doesn’t believe it exists at all?

Isn’t it just his luck, that he doesn’t believe that fated Omega for him exists either?

 

<<< >>>

 

 _Oh_ , Coulson thinks when he sees Clint for the first time in Nick’s office on board the Helicarrier, _it’s you, the one I never thought could exist. But you do. You do_.

 

<<< >>>

 

Coulson hates feeling helpless like he is now, watching Clint weakly thrashing about on their bed in the throes of another vicious nightmare. It’s been two weeks since Clint was discharged from the med bay and permitted to return to their apartment in Brooklyn for further recuperation. Two weeks, and almost every night, Clint dreams of the assault and relives it with frightening severity.

He wants so badly to console Clint, to hold his mate close to him and stroke his hair and face and tell him everything’s going to be all right again. But they’ve learned the painful way - a solid punch to Coulson’s face the first night Clint was back here - that Clint can’t control what he does when he’s still ensnared in a nightmare, that Clint physically lashes out if he’s touched.

So he watches and he waits beside Clint on the bed. He says his mate’s name and calmly, firmly tells Clint that he’s safe and that he has to wake up as Clint claws ineffectively at the sheets and lets out heart-wrenching gasps of terror. Clint is so pale that his skin is almost gray. His scent has a sickly tinge to it, made stronger by fear and panic. His longer-than-usual blond hair is matted with sweat that also soak large patches on a white t-shirt and make Clint’s skin shine in the warm illumination of their bedside lamps.

Coulson’s scent glands are pumping out as much pheromones to calm Clint down as they can. He bends down as near to Clint’s ear as he can and says Clint’s name again.

“Clint. You’re safe, sweetheart. You’re with me and you’re safe. You’re only dreaming.”

He has to withdraw to his side of the bed to stop himself from touching Clint. He swallows hard when he sees that Clint is still immersed in the nightmare, whimpering words that sound like _stop_ and _no_ and _don’t_.

Fuck this. If Clint punches him again, he doesn’t care. He can’t stand this. He won’t let his mate suffer a second longer.

“Clint.” Coulson reaches out to caress Clint’s stubbly cheek with the back of his fingers. “Clint, _wake up_.”

The instant their skin touch, Clint goes rigid. Clint’s eyes snap open and dart all over the room, halting on him, staring at him as if Clint isn’t sure whether he’s real or not while still hyperventilating.

“Hey, you,” Coulson murmurs, smiling softly as best he can, caressing Clint’s cheek over and over. “Welcome back.”

It seems to take forever for Clint’s breaths to slow down and deepen. Coulson sees Clint’s lips work soundlessly for a few seconds, perhaps getting ready to fire a quip that’ll fracture the taut atmosphere and let Clint don his macho, wisecracking, nothing-can-hurt-me mask again. (It’s a mask Clint’s worn for months now, worn so expertly that no one outside of this room knows it isn’t Clint’s true face, that it never was.)

“Do you know who I am? Where you are?”

Clint blinks, then says with a gravelly voice, “Phil. Home.”

The two words fracture the mask _Coulson_ is wearing, instead. He barely holds it together as Clint hurls himself into his embrace and almost crushes his ribs with both arms and tangles their legs. He can’t hug his mate as fervently, not with Clint still healing from his injuries and he runs his fingers through Clint’s damp hair and purrs deep from his chest, knowing the rumbling sound and vibrations will settle Clint even more.

Oh, tonight’s nightmare must have been horrific for Clint to openly seek solace from him like this.

“Why?” Clint asks wetly against his neck. “Why?”

Coulson has a multitude of answers to that:

_Because life isn’t fair._

_Because this fucked up world is full of fucked up people, and neither gives a damn about the innocent and the good._

_Because I wasn’t there when those two fucked up bastards that you trusted as your mentors assaulted you in that motel room long ago and robbed you of your remaining innocence._

_Because I wasn’t fast enough when one of them came back and robbed us of the future we both wanted after all._

_Because I failed you._

What he says, however, is, “ _Sshh_ , don’t torture yourself wondering why. Maybe there’s no answer at all. Maybe the only answer is for us to stay united and move on and not look back.”

He hates himself for the hypocritical bullshit (even though he knows it’s what Clint needs to hear right now). He knows precisely what the answer is to ending Clint’s nightmares once and for all, to allowing them to really move on and never look back.

He knows now what he _has_ to do.

Clint merely squirms closer to him, rubbing a damp face against his shoulder. He shuts his eyes and purrs more as the sickly tinge fades away from Clint’s scent that gradually restores itself to its familiar crisp and sweet quality. He strokes the back of Clint’s neck, strokes and presses on the bonding gland in Clint’s shoulder, sensing with his fingertips the raised tissue that marks his mating bite there.

Yes. Tomorrow, he’ll get the equipment he needs. (He can easily erase all records of their removal from inventory with no questions asked, being second after Nick in SHIELD’s hierarchy of power.) He’ll go to the warehouse and secure it. Clean up and prepare its soundproofed, underground cell. Then he has to talk to Nick, but he already knows what Nick will say. He knows Nick will have his back, especially in this. He’ll make things right again.

For Clint, he’ll do whatever it takes to make things right again. Even if it means becoming a monster himself.

 

<<< >>>

 

Clint discovers his Omega status when he’s thirteen years old and already in the Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders, abandoned by his parents when Pop got drunk and killed himself and Ma in that car accident, abandoned by Barney when they ran away from the orphanage and Barney realized there’s a whole world out there to explore without a little brother to drag him down. He has yet to be taken under the Swordsman’s wing at this point nor Trick Shot’s, but in hindsight, knowing what fucked up Alphas they were even then, it’s a damn good thing.

He’s alone for once in the tiny caravan he has to share with Anastasia the Fortune Teller (but she’s a really nice Beta and like the grandma he never had). He’s curled up on his bunk when he’s suddenly _soaked_ between his legs with something warm and thick and _slick_. He won’t know for months yet that the stuff _is_ called slick, that all Omegas who hit puberty will produce it whenever they’re sexually aroused, even more when they’re in heat. He won’t know for months yet either about heats, about how it can almost drive some Omegas insane if they aren’t fucked by an Alpha throughout one. (Thank fucking _fuck_ for heat suppressants, is what he can say now.)

The slick soaks his jeans so quickly that he scrambles off the bunk in a mess of long, lean limbs from the shock of it. He has enough presence of mind to lock the caravan’s wooden door (and Anastasia won’t be back for ages from the card games at the Horse Master’s caravan anyway).

“What the _hell_?” he says to himself, unzipping his jeans and shoving them down to his knees. “Wha?”

For a second, he’s terrified that he’s going to see _blood_ and that he’s _dying_ or something. But no, it’s just this translucent, shiny _stuff_ that’s … coming out of his ass.

He slides his right hand between his legs. His fingers encounter more of the slick stuff coating the back of his balls and his asshole and _jeez_ , there’s so _much_ of it and it smells _sweet_ somehow and … whoa. _Whoa_.

“Oh my god,” he whispers as he gingerly touches his hole with his fingertips. He shudders from head to toe at how damn _good_ it feels just to do that, to rub his fingers across it again and again and spread the slick stuff in the crack of his ass. It’s hardly the first time he’s played with his hole. In fact, he usually does so when he jerks off since it feels just as good. But _this_ time … his hole’s never felt like _this_ before. Like the slightest touch sends jolts of electrifying pleasure through his whole body. Like it’s aching to be _filled_ with something _big_ and _hot_ and _long_ . Like it _hurts_ if he doesn’t fill it up now, with something, _anything_ -

He pushes one finger in and it enters him to the last knuckle easily in one slide. The pleasure from _that_ strikes him so hard that he tumbles back onto his bunk on shaky knees and free hand, his other hand still between his thighs. He is _so_ glad that he can stay silent while jerking off and coming, because the expanding pleasure of pushing in two more fingers, of thrusting them in and out of his slick, snug hole is beyond his ability for his quaking body to contain for long.

The pleasure explodes deep in his hole when his fingers rub hard across a sensitive, spongy bump (that he’ll learn later is his prostate, also known as That Magical Spot That Makes Him Come Like Krakatoa). For the first time in his life, he comes without touching his cock once, his fingers shoved deep inside himself, his mouth open wide in a soundless scream.

He will never be the same again after that night, after learning how to pleasure himself so acutely, after learning about dildos and using knotted ones to help him get through heats before getting his hands on suppressants.

He will never be the same again after _that_ night, too, after learning that people you trusted to protect you, to be your _friend_ can turn on you in a heartbeat when you least expect it. That people are just monsters in human-shaped bodies who’ll willingly devour their own kind when they can get away with it.

Sometimes, when he dares to think about that seedy motel room in Iowa again, he thinks that maybe there were three people who’d died in there instead of one.

 

<<< >>>

 

Only after a year - after dashing out of the hospital, hot-wiring a car, getting the fuck out of the circus and out of Waverly before those cops returned and never looking back, never looking back - does Clint break down into piercing sobs and unheard howls of anguish, curled up on yet another seedy motel room floor, still tasting hot blood in his mouth and feeling tender skin and flesh rend asunder beneath his fingers.

 

<<< >>>

 

“Heard Barton’s gonna join the Hunt this year,” Agent Williams says through the small speakers on Coulson’s desk, and that’s all Coulson needs to hear for his whole attention to be focused on the security video feed running on the transparent projected screen over his desk and in front of him.

Agent Williams, Nguyen and Ramirez, all junior agents in line for a promotion soon, are in one of the many break rooms scattered throughout the numerous floors of the Helicarrier’s staff offices. Williams is pouring himself a mug of coffee while Nguyen and Ramirez are seated at a square table with their own mugs of coffee. The camera observing them is well-hidden and located in the ceiling in a corner of the room, and so the only face visible to Coulson right now is Ramirez’s.

Ramirez is an Alpha. And from the look of Ramirez’s face at Williams’ casual comment, the agent is _quite_ pleased about Clint’s participation in the Hunt this year.

Alone in his office like he is, Coulson doesn’t bother to hide his derisive snort. This little _brat_ thinks he can take on an Omega like _Clint_ ? During the _Hunt_?

Kids these days are getting more and more arrogant, it seems.

“No kidding? Where’d you hear that?” Ramirez asks, eyes lit up with eagerness even in the grainy quality of the video feed.

“Barton told Myers and Singh when they were talking about it last week. Seemed pretty hyped to be in it, and Myers got the vibe that Barton didn’t mind if everybody knew it.”

“Damn. He’s pretty hot. Have you seen his _ass_?”

Williams, a Beta, lets out what sounds like a benevolent snort. Coulson gets why heterosexual Betas like him don’t understand the _appeal_ of an Omega to Alphas. Omegas are rare enough as it is in this world, much less unmated ones who’ve long matured and are as _exquisite_ as Clint.

Well, then. There’s going to be more competition to deal with than Coulson expected.

Crushing them all beneath his heel in his Chase after Clint will be _divine_.

“Hey,” Nguyen says. “I … found out some things about the guy from a friend.”

“Yeah?” Ramirez says.

“Yeah. Old cop in Iowa. He ran into Barton almost twenty years ago during a homicide investigation. Although, technically, he doesn’t _know_ it was Barton. Said it was one of the most disturbing cases he ever handled in his career.”

Ramirez and Williams gaze at the other Beta in the room. So does Coulson, drumming the fingers of his right hand on his desk.

“Did you guys know Barton used to be in a circus? That he was some kinda kid prodigy with a bow and arrows and had his own act for a while? The Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I remember a circus like that,” Ramirez says, leaning forward with his forearms on the table. “Didn’t know Barton was a performer in it though.”

“Well, nobody would. He used a fake name the whole time he was with the circus, and I don’t mean his stage name.”

“‘One of the most disturbing cases’, huh?” Williams says. “What’s _that_ about?”

Nguyen takes a sip of his coffee.

“Word was, he had two mentors in that circus. One was a French guy who specialized in bladed weapons, and the other guy’s gig was archery. And yeah, he was the guy who taught Barton that.” Nguyen pauses a moment, then says with a quieter voice, “So this was back in the 90s, right? One night my friend gets called over to this grubby motel near the circus when it was in town. The owner, this old lady, is fucking hysterical and scared out of her mind and can barely tell my friend what the fuck happened apart from some kinda crazy, violent shit going down in one of the rooms. She was a Beta so my friend can’t even calm her down with his Alpha hormones.

“When he and his partner charge into the room, they see blood _everywhere_ , like a slaughter house. All over the walls and the carpet. Even the _ceiling_ . They see this blond, half-naked kid curled up into a ball as far away as possible from the corpse of a huge Alpha on the bed with his throat ripped out. Kid’s just _drenched_ in blood and shivering. He’s bruised all over and has defensive wounds on his arms. Obvious the other guy attacked him and he’d been fighting for his life.”

Ramirez and Williams are silent, listening intently with grim eyes.

“So the two cops think that’s it, right? Attacker’s down and dead, and the victim’s still alive. Then my friend looks down at the floor at his feet and he …” Nguyen pauses again, longer this time. “He looks down and he sees a torn off _face_. Right there on the carpet like some kinda gory Halloween mask. And he sniffs the air, and he realizes there was another guy involved but the other guy’s gone, which means he’s still alive and on the run and _missing his face_.”

“Jesus fuck,” Ramirez mumbles.

“Yeah,” Williams says, mouth agape, coffee in hand forgotten. “Fuck.”

“Yeah. After other cops, the ME and an ambulance arrive, they take the poor kid to the hospital and ID the dead guy as the guy with the archery act in the circus. His stage name was … Trick Shot? Something like that. Anyway, after the kid’s treated and in recovery, they get some idea of what happened in that room. Kid’s cagey and nervous. Not his first brush with the authorities. Kid won’t ID the guys, but tells them the guys were Alphas he knew for years. That they went drinking ‘cause he’d just turned eighteen and was back in his home town and he wanted to celebrate, you know? The two guys wanted to celebrate too. Just not the way he expected.

“Kid says they drugged him with something. Tried to force him into heat, he thinks, but it didn’t work ‘cause of his suppressants and he tried to fight them off. They got violent, tried to rape him and it became a kill-or-die situation. He ripped out one guy’s throat with his teeth. Tore off the other guy’s face with his claws. Says that’s all he remembers.”

Ramirez and Williams glance at each other. Then Ramirez sits back while Williams rubs one hand over his mouth, both aghast.

Coulson, watching and listening like an omnipresent deity, feels light-headed and sick to his stomach. He presses his hands hard and flat on his desk, for the alternative is to let his unsheathed claws score deep grooves into its polished surface.

Curiosity kills the cat.

It seems it can also kill top-level agents who decide to (furtively) access security camera feeds and program (without Nick’s permission but that’s nothing new) a regular scan of them for any mention of his asset (his Omega, his fated mate, _his_ ).

“That is some fucked up shit, Dennis,” Ramirez mutters, shaking his head.

“No shit,” Nguyen says after letting out a snort. “Imagine a guy with no face running around in the middle of the night in a small Midwestern town scaring the hell outta people! The cops never found him despite him missing his goddamn _face_ . And since the kid gave them a fake ID and vamoosed from the hospital _and_ the circus before they could question him again, they couldn’t find him either. They had to confirm ID of the other guy using DNA from what was, uh, left behind.”

“He was the French guy?” Williams asks.

“Yeah. He was known as the Swordsman, if I remember right. The case was all over the local news for a while. After the cops found out the kid was a performer in the circus too, the circus wasn’t allowed to leave until everybody was questioned. A whole lotta performers and crew members ran anyway. The cops had a fucking field day catching and arresting more criminals who’d used the circus as a hideout. And the kid was never named since it was confirmed he was actually still a minor.” Nguyen takes another sip of coffee. “I didn’t put the two and two together until Barton mentioned being in a circus when he was a kid and being from Iowa. I mean, how many blond, arrow-shooting, Omega circus prodigies from Iowa could there be, right?”

Ramirez leans forward again, this time with a smirk.

“Hey. Does Barton know that _you_ know?”

“Hell no, of course he doesn’t! I don’t wanna _die_ , man.”

The three agents crack up with low laughter edged with lingering uneasiness. The sound crackles for an instant through the speakers on Coulson’s desk, loud in the absolute silence in Coulson’s office.

“You told anyone else?” Williams asks. “You gonna tell anyone else?”

“No and no. And you two assholes better not either. I’m just _guessing_ that that kid was Barton, all right? For _obvious_ reasons, I’m never going to verify it.” Nguyen sighs heavily. “I just … wanted to get it off my chest.”

“Wise decision. I hear Barton and Coulson are tight. Real tight.”

“Ooh _shit_ , Dennis, you in trouble _now_ ,” Ramirez says while snickering.

Coulson sees Nguyen’s head tilt back for a moment. From Ramirez’s amused reaction, he assumes Nguyen rolled his eyes.

“After something like that ... damn. You gotta give Barton major props for winning a fight against two Alphas while drugged up. Especially if those guys had been high on their rut pheromones.” Williams, standing all this time, leans back against the counter with his mug of coffee still in hand. “Still, why’s he joining the Hunt? You’d think the _last_ thing he’d want is to be claimed by an Alpha.”

Ramirez shrugs and says, “Who knows. Maybe he’s gotten over what happened and _wants_ an Alpha mate now. You’d be surprised at how an Omega’s heats can make them so _desperate_.” He smirks again, wider and edged with something dark. “I bet Barton’s cool act is just that, an act. I bet that when he goes into heat, he turns into some _wildcat_ who begs all pretty for Alpha cock to fill his big mouth and ass.”

Coulson doesn’t care that he’s scored at least one deep groove into the surface of his desk now. Ah yes, important mental note: Take Agent Ramirez down a peg or ten during the Hunt. Preferably with his claws reducing that insolent tongue to bloody shreds.

“Holy _fuck_ , Georgie.” Williams let out an appalled laugh. “You make me glad to _not_ be an Alpha.”

“Hah! I feel sorry for you that you’re not! You got no idea what you’re missing out, chasing and fucking Omegas who think your cock is their entire _universe_.”

Williams’ expression goes deadpan.

“So you still wanna go after him, huh? He might just rip your face off. Unless, you know, that’s your thing.”

“Oh, fuck off, Jimmy.”

The three junior agents laugh again, but Coulson isn’t listening to their gossiping anymore. He’s seeing in his mind a blood-splattered, traumatized teenager with spiky, blond hair and stark blue eyes curled up into a ball in a grisly murder scene, his innocence lost forever. He’s seeing Clint (the Clint he knows, the Clint he’ll love for all of his life) in the same state and pose, frozen in that moment in time, trapped there no matter how far he’s run, how much he’s grown.

Now, _now_ he understands why Clint is still unmated after all this time.

And how did SHIELD _miss_ this ghastly part of Clint’s past in their background check? How could Clint’s previous handlers not know about this if they’d done their jobs _right_?

(Coulson ignores his brain telling him that _he_ hadn’t known about it either until now. That _he_ is Clint’s handler too and that handlers work with what they’ve got _now_ and not with what’s buried in the past but he’s angry, he is _angry_ and he wants _blood_.)

Before the week is over, heads are going to roll.

Before the following years are over, Coulson will ensure that he makes the most damned one of all do just that.

 

<<< >>>

 

“I told McKinney to keep it off my record, after he found out about it,” Clint says quietly, carefully, studying his beloved mate’s face with the large, vulnerable eyes of a boy. “It was bad shit I wanted to put behind me forever, Phil, and I didn’t want it to … _stain_ the new life I got with SHIELD. At first McKinney was gonna tell Fury, but since it was Fury who wanted me in SHIELD, he was gonna tell _you_ instead and I … I begged him not to. And he didn’t.”

Phil gazes back at him with an outwardly placid expression, stroking the side of his neck with gentle fingers.

He senses the storm brewing behind Phil’s big blue eyes, anyway. Phil’s scent is developing that recognizable, sharp hint of ire too (but it’s never directed at him, never).

“And what did McKinney gain by doing this for you?” Phil asks quietly, oh so _carefully_.

Phil may as well have bared his fangs and snarled an oath to dismember McKinney for making him beg for anything. Phil’s really protective of him like that, although it only shows whenever they’re alone, when they’re just Phil and Clint here in their apartment and not Agent Coulson and Hawkeye on a mission. He’d be a liar if he said it doesn’t turn him on like crazy. It’s nice to be _loved_ so much. (It’s nice to be loved at all.)

His eyes crinkle with a smidgen of amusement and a whole lot of affection as he lifts his right hand to touch Phil’s cheek.

“Nothing,” Clint murmurs, his slight smile turning bittersweet. “Except maybe a few nightmares of his own.”

Phil angles his head at that. Clint senses the storm in him abate in the light of curiosity, feels his fingers going still.

“At the time, he said he had an Omega kid almost my age. He said if his kid had gone through what I did, he would hunt down her attackers to the end of the world and make them pay with blood. Then bury them and wait for time to erase them completely from existence.”

After a minute, Phil begins stroking the side of his neck once more.

“Well. I can relate to that,” Phil says, straight-faced, and Clint lets out a huff of laughter and leans forward to touch their foreheads together. He shuts his eyes.

“Hey, Phil?”

“Hm?”

“Promise me you won’t do all that?”

Again, Phil’s fingers go motionless against his neck.

“Why?”

With his eyes still shut, Clint bunts his forehead against Phil’s and rubs his mate’s broad, sturdy chest with both hands. He sighs when Phil envelops his shoulders and upper back with sinewy arms that have held him close for so many nights now (and for the rest of their lives and beyond, if he has it his way).

“I don’t want you to turn into them,” he whispers. “I don’t wanna lose you.”

When he thinks back to this hushed, pellucid afternoon in their apartment’s living room in the years to come, he remembers most the press of Phil’s soft, open lips to his, the glide of Phil’s tongue into his mouth. He remembers Phil’s hands guiding him onto his back on the couch, stripping each item of clothing from his body until he’s naked and writhing under Phil’s relentless kisses and caresses. He remembers Phil thrusting into him to the hilt in one motion, going in so easy and good from the slick and he remembers arching off the cushions and crying out and coming and _coming_ around Phil’s ample knot, his eyes squeezed shut and his heart burst open.

But he doesn’t remember Phil saying _you won’t lose me, you won’t_.

 

<<< >>>

 

What Coulson will remember most after Clint awakens in the Helicarrier’s medical bay, after hours-long emergency surgery and a five-day coma, gripping Clint’s hand like a limp lifeline, are the excruciating, strident gasps of agony spilling from Clint’s gaping mouth while Clint is raised to the heavens as a gutted sacrifice by a man.

A man with the face of a monster but just a man, just like him. A man who can bleed. A man who can suffer.

A man who can _die_.

 

<<< >>>

 

The steel needles are the first to wrench a scream out of the piece of shit scumbag tied to the bolted down metal chair, going deep as they do under grimy fingernails.

“Your hands were very important to you, weren’t they, Duquesne?” Coulson says nonchalantly as he pushes another needle under the nail of his prisoner’s right forefinger with gloved hands. “Being the Swordsman and all.”

He doesn’t care that Duquesne is still screaming, still struggling to free himself from the metal restraints around his neck, midriff, biceps, wrists and shins. Nick did an excellent job of soundproofing the cell. No one outside of it will hear anything.

“Clint’s hands are very important to him too, being a master archer and all. Oh, you didn’t know him as Clint, did you? No, he called himself Jeremy back then. He was smart even then, to use a false identity when he had to mingle with the likes of _you_.”

Coulson sits back on his rolling chair to admire the numerous needles sticking out of the ends of Duquesne’s fingers like slim, silver parodies of claws. He still has dozens more needles in the top tray of the metal kitchen cart next to him, but perhaps it’s time for something more … permanent.

“No, I won’t stop,” he says as nonchalantly, after Duquesne pants and groans and has the nerve to try _speaking_ to him again. “Not until you’ve suffered for every second of pain you inflicted on my _mate_.”

He rummages around in the second tray of the kitchen cart until his hand lands on what he’s seeking. He brings out the object in question, his face as aloof as it was hours ago when he dragged down this sorry excuse for a human being from the van that’s still parked aboveground inside the warehouse.

“Did you know he told me everything that you did to him, from the day you met each other in the circus?” he says, examining the large combination pliers in his hand by holding it up in the air in front of his face. “Everything that _hurt_ him and _broke_ him, in as much detail as possible? No?”

Duquesne’s beady, black eyes are also staring at the large combination pliers.

“Well. He did.” Coulson lowers the pliers and grips the third finger of Duquesne’s right hand with his free hand. “And I have _so_ much time, so _many_ things for you to _experience_. So don’t be too hasty to die on me, hm?”

He hears Duquesne’s breaths hasten as he squeezes the finger between the pliers’ jaws until they’re between its sharp cutters.

He blinks, and he hears Clint’s excruciating, strident gasps of agony, hears the spatter of Clint’s blood upon barren ground like rain from Clint’s ripped open belly.

He blinks again, and he hears once more Duquesne snarling those fucking _words_ up at Clint.

 _How do you think he’ll feel, knowing that_ he’s _the reason you’re dying now_?

Coulson’s vision is engulfed in red. He squeezes the pliers’ handles and with a sickening crunch, Duquesne’s severed finger falls off onto the cement floor. He silently goes for the next finger and severs it as well, ignoring Duquesne’s even more shrill screaming. He is ruthless and methodical with each squeeze of the pliers’ handles.

He halts only after all of Duquesne’s fingers are on the floor, fleshy and bloody parodies of dead, impaled worms.

He takes out a butcher’s meat saw next.

Eventually, Duquesne stops screaming.

Coulson stares down at the severed right forearm in his grasp with a stoic visage. It’s peculiar how a mobile limb that was once attached to a living creature can instantly become nothing more than a mass of meat and bone once detached.

At least this particular mass of flesh and bone will never, ever harm another person again. (Never harm Clint again, _never_.)

As he chucks the forearm aside, a now weakened and delirious Duquesne lets out a wretched moan, returning to consciousness after blacking out from him cauterizing the stump with a blowtorch. The acrid stench of burnt flesh still permeates the stuffy air of the cell.

He’s sitting face to face with Duquesne when Duquesne finally manages to focus those beady, black eyes on him.

The satisfaction he feels when he sees the _fear_ in those eyes is far from minuscule.

“What … _are you_?” Duquesne whispers.

As if from afar, Coulson feels his lips quirk up. Whatever expression he has on his face now, it’s enough to make Duquesne recoil from him, to make Duquesne whine low like a dog.

“You can’t tell?” Coulson says so very nonchalantly. “Today, I’m just a mirror. Do you like what you see?”

Duquesne never does give him an answer, but he doesn’t mind. He already knows what it is.

 

<<< >>>

 

The fourth Alpha to attempt to claim Clint is almost _adorable_ in his enthusiasm. It takes Clint less than five seconds to throw the dark-haired, brawny Alpha kid down onto the leaf-strewn ground and keep him down.

“You wanna keep going with this?” Clint asks coolly, one hand on the back of the kid’s neck and one knee digging into the kid’s lower back. “My advice would be ‘no’.”

“I yield,” the kid wisely gasps.

“Good boy.”

The kid scrambles away to a safe distance from him the moment he lets go, and he can’t help but be amused when the kid turns around and glances at him with an expression of flagrant desire mixed with regret. Kid knew he never had a chance, but he gave it a shot anyway. Clint has to give some kudos for that. Certainly with the reputation he knows he’s got among the rookies as the legendary Hawkeye, specialist agent with a hundred-percent successful mission record and the only agent in SHIELD history to have lasted beyond six months as the equally legendary Agent Phil Coulson’s asset.

He’s especially proud of that last bit. It’s just more proof to him that he and Phil _fit_ together, like a bow and arrow in war.

After tonight, _everyone_ will know how true that is.

He doesn’t bother watching the Alpha kid leave. He kneels on the ground and gazes up at the starlit sky, at the full moon hanging low and bone-white. The moon is bright enough that it’s illuminating the verdant leaves and thick trunks of the towering trees surrounding him. He feels assembled, _whole_ as he gazes upon it, as if he _belongs_ here in the wilderness, naked from the waist up and garbed in black tactical pants and leather boots, having cast aside his person-suit. He’s _ravenous_ for one particular Alpha to hunt him and _claim_ him tonight.

He’s already fought off three other Alphas, but he’ll gladly fight off as many others until that one Alpha makes his appearance. (Please let it be _soon_.) He’s only had to flash his fangs and claws once, against Cooper who he’s worked with on a mission before, slashing at Cooper’s face when Cooper pinned him to the ground on his back and tried yanking off his pants.

It’s fucking weird how he can wake up screaming in terror from a nightmare about that night in that seedy Waverly motel and yet not feel any of that terror at all when he’s being similarly attacked in reality. His shrink once mentioned that this is something called compartmentalization, that he can separate different streams of thought and even shove certain ones into locked boxes that stay locked in the darkest recesses of his mind. Whatever it’s called, it’s the reason he can be the SHIELD specialist agent he is today, the reason he hasn’t already gone insane.

Cooper is very fortunate, indeed, that he didn’t just burrow his claws in and _swipe_.

He arches and bares his neck, his arms spread at his sides. He laughs noiselessly to himself. He can smell at least three new Alphas lurking in the bushes all around him, watching him, _lusting_ after him. He hasn’t even produced any slick yet -

All thought flees from his brain when an ear-splitting, _terrifying_ roar reverberates throughout the forests and silences every living creature in them. He’s heard his share of Alpha roars in his time during previous Hunts, but none have ever sounded so _powerful_ , so _enthralling_. None have ever managed to make him _gush_ with slick until his pants are wet.

But then, considering who that roar belongs to, he would have been surprised if he _hadn’t_ gushed slick out like he just did.

“There you are,” Clint says, grinning, sniffing the air and inhaling that rich, earthy, _virile_ Alpha scent whose owner he’s fantasized about so many times in the past six months.

Phil is close. And getting closer, _closer_ -

The crush of twigs and leaves under leather soles is the only warning Clint gets before a familiar and yet utterly extraordinary figure bounds into view, landing on both feet into an elegant crouch a dozen feet in front of him. Clint has to blink hard to realize that the also half-naked, muscled, _supreme Alpha sex god_ in identical tactical pants and boots he’s gaping at _is_ Phil.

Clint’s eyes widen as Phil, with one hand on the ground between spread thighs, slowly lifts his head to stare at him with huge, unblinking eyes that almost _glow_ in the dimness of night. Iridescent moonlight delineates the impressive contours and swells of Phil’s broad shoulders and tensed arms. Phil’s chest is just as impressive, flat and firm, with flat, small nipples, dusted with curls as dark as the thin hair on Phil’s head. Fuck, Phil even has _rippled abs_ that rival _his_ and Clint knows that Phil has to regularly work out too to stay in prime physical condition but oh _fuck_ , he never thought that underneath those tailored suits, Phil would be so goddamn hot and magnificent and _perfect_.

 _Ooh fuck_ , Phil even has his claws and _fangs_ out.

Clint feels no shame whatsoever as more slick gushes out of his hole to soak his pants. Phil has yet to do anything other than _look_ at him, and already he’s battling the excessive impulse to sprawl on his back and spread his legs and have Phil _fuck_ him right then and there.

No. No, that wouldn’t be fair to both of them. They deserve the thrill of the Chase. Phil has to _earn_ the right to be his Alpha, his _mate_ (and oh god, just the _thought_ of that is making his hunger for Phil’s knot _radiate_ through him), and he has to give it all he’s got to evade capture so that there’s no doubt in the eyes of society that Phil is _worthy_ of him. (Phil doesn’t need to prove anything to _him_ , not after all the missions they’ve been on together, not after all the times Phil’s saved him and _cared_ for him as only the finest Alpha can.)

Oh yeah, they’re going to have the fucking time of their _lives_ tonight.

Clint bites his lower lip as he watches Phil blatantly sniff the air and smell his potent Omegan pheromones and slick. Oh yeah, _oh yeah_ , if the rumbling, _pleased_ growl coming from Phil is any indication, Phil _really_ likes how he smells.

They stare at each other for precious seconds, their eyes wide and unblinking, unwilling to forfeit even a microsecond of the enticing sight of each other. (To remember each other like this, to remember how _right_ they’ve always been and will always be, how _fated_ they were to meet and _fall in love_ with each other and _stay_ together.)

Then, the three Alphas lurking in the bushes charge into the open at Phil. They barrel into him from different directions, forcing him away from Clint with raucous growls and fangs all out.

Clint springs into a pouncing position on all fours, his own fangs bared in a snarl of outrage. There are no official rules of the Hunt for Alphas other than to not permanently injure or kill other participants. There are, however, many more unwritten ones and one of them is that ganging up on one Alpha with other Alphas is bad form. The lowest. The choice made by the _weak_.

Clint needs not worry, though.

In a matter of minutes, Phil has flung one blond Alpha against a tree trunk, knocked out another twice his size with a brutal right hook to the head and is now shoving the third, dark-haired Alpha face down into the ground with one hand on the back of the Alpha’s neck and the other twisting the Alpha’s left arm at a tortuous angle. Clint almost grimaces at the yowls of pain coming from the downed Alpha (who he’ll find out later is a junior agent called Ramirez) when Phil yanks harder on said left arm.

And no, he feels _no_ shame whatsoever about his hole gushing even _more_ slick as Phil bends down to snarl loud and aggressively near the Alpha’s ear, placing sharp, glinting fangs so near to a vulnerable neck and its hammering pulse.

“I yield, _I yield_ ,” he hears the Alpha whine into dead leaves.

Phil doesn’t let go.

Clint, in a more relaxed pose now, tilts his head to one side and continues to observe with large eyes and a curious expression. Why isn’t Phil letting the other Alpha go? Does Phil want to fight him some more? _Hurt_ him?

(Weeks from now, when they’re in bed in Phil’s apartment become theirs, Phil will tell him about what Ramirez had said about his mouth and ass. Phil will tell him about how he’d fantasized about ripping out Ramirez’s tongue with his claws for days afterward, and Phil will be _mortified_ about it and Clint will chuckle and kiss Phil and tell his red-faced mate how _sweet_ he is.)

Again, Clint’s eyes widen when Phil lifts his head to gaze at him. His breath snags in his throat when he realizes that Phil isn’t letting go because Phil … is waiting for _his permission_ to do it.

Holy shit, and here he thought he can’t possibly be more _turned on_.

He nods once. It’s enough for Phil who finally releases the poor, whimpering Alpha from his iron grip. Like the Alpha Clint had taken down earlier, this Alpha swiftly scampers away. Unlike the other Alpha, he doesn’t even glance back and vanishes into the shadows, leaving Clint and Phil alone with two unconscious Alphas.

The unconscious Alphas may as well not be there at all, staring at each other so ardently like Clint is at Phil and Phil at him.

“ _Mine_ ,” Phil growls out.

If Clint sees Phil every day for the rest of their lives, he will still remember the possessiveness, the _devotion_ in Phil’s voice and Phil’s eyes as vividly as he does right now.

He crouches on all fours, ready to sprint away. He keeps his eyes locked to Phil’s as he deliberately spreads his thighs and arches his back. He can pinpoint the instant Phil gets an even stronger whiff of his pheromones and slick, of his pungent _desire_ for Phil when Phil’s eyes widen and _blaze_ , when Phil curls up his upper lip and _growls_ again.

“I’m yours,” Clint rasps, flaunting his own fangs in a wicked grin. “If you can catch me.”

He runs.

He laughs with joy as he dashes through the forest, vaulting over gnarled tree roots and springing off tree trunks, heedless of the noise he’s making that’s giving Phil an easy lock on him. Phil isn’t bothering to hide the noise he’s making either, racing after him with quick, heavy strides.

Phil catches up to him soon enough and attempts to tackle him from behind. He manages to swivel around and swing a fist at Phil’s face, a move he knows Phil will easily deflect. Phil blocks it with a forearm while going for a low punch in the belly, a move _he_ easily deflects. He narrowly avoids getting chopped in the neck while Phil blocks his jab at Phil’s ribs. They exchange many more fast punches and kicks like that, always giving the other that microsecond to intercept a strike before it actually lands, testing each other’s strength and endurance without hurting each other.

It’s so fucking _hot_ to Clint that he thinks maybe this should be their foreplay _every time_ they have sex. (Oh god, oh yes, Phil is going to _fuck_ and _claim_ him soon.)

After delivering a high kick at Phil’s face that makes Phil leap back, he sprints away again into the forest, laughing even more joyously. He doesn’t give a damn that his pants are making squishing sounds from all the slick steeping it, that he’s only half-heartedly running away now, struggling with the growing urge to just go on his knees and hands and let Phil _take him already_.

He wants Phil so much, so bad, and he’s tired of waiting, of living another second without Phil deep inside him and filling him up until there’s no more emptiness in him.

He wants Phil _now_.

When Phil tackles him this time, he goes down on his back with Phil on top of him and between his spread legs. (In retrospect, he should have teased Phil for choosing a secluded spot with a freaking _pile of leaves_ to cushion their fall, but his beloved mate is a softie like that where he’s concerned.) He doesn’t even get winded, but he does stay still for the seconds it takes for Phil to tug his arms up over his head and hold him down by the wrists. He puts up a very convincing fight, snarling up at Phil and tensing his stretched arms (because he knows how _good_ they look like this and he knows how often Phil glances at them whenever he’s wearing his Hawkeye outfit) and bowing up his back (because he knows how good his torso looks too, tautened and _displayed_ like this for Phil).

Phil also snarls down at him, leaning down until their noses are grazing. They’re still growling as their noses skim against each other, as they rub their noses and foreheads against each other. Their growling tapers down to rumbling purrs as Phil nips him on his upper lip, then his lower one, as he nips Phil’s lips right back. He gasps when Phil nips his chin and along his lower jaw as well, up to his right earlobe that Phil then bites once.

Clint relaxes onto the leaves beneath him when Phil raises his head to gaze down at him again. They stare into each other’s eyes, breathing softly against each other’s parted lips. Phil purrs once more as he shifts his hands from Clint’s wrists to Clint’s hands, entwining their fingers. They’re already marking each other with their scents, mingling their pheromones, combining them into a scent that will declare to all in range that they’re mated.

“You’ve earned me,” Clint rasps, still breathing through his tremoring, parted lips, getting consumed by his need for Phil’s cock and knot. “ _Now claim me_.”

The seconds Phil takes to tear open his tactical pants and shove them down to mid-thigh feels like a tormenting eon to Clint. Phil isn’t wearing anything under his pants and Clint isn’t ashamed at all about the high-pitched moan he lets out at the sight of Phil’s long, erect, flushed, _glorious_ cock framed by a thatch of dark hair. It’s better than his fantasies, better and _bigger_ and _thicker_ than anything he’d ever imagined. Phil’s cock is so hard that it smacks against Phil’s belly, already leaking pre-come and the sight and _delectable smell_ of it is making Clint’s mouth water and his slick hole _clench_ with lust.

He lets out another moan as Phil tears off _his_ pants and exposes his own erect cock and throbbing ass to Phil’s sight. His mind blanks out from the pleasure as Phil pushes in three long, callused fingers into his slick-soaked, quivering, _desperate_ hole at once, opening him up, _preparing_ him, massaging that sweet spot in him that has him grappling at Phil’s arms and writhing on the ground and _moaning_ for Phil to pump him full of his fertile seed and _breed_ him.

He arches off the ground at Phil pulling out those long fingers. He gasps and _whines_ at Phil grabbing him and hauling him closer by the thighs, and when Phil finally, _finally_ thrusts that big, thick, _sumptuous_ cock into his ass, all the way to the hilt, he _screams_ at the moon and comes on the spot, convulsing and clamping so _tight_ around his Alpha’s _perfect_ cock, shooting ropes of his own seed all over his heaving stomach and chest.

Phil lets out a spine-tingling sound that’s somewhere between a growl and a roar. Phil slams his legs onto those broad shoulders and bends him double and oh god, oh fuck, _oh fuck_ , Phil is thrusting in and out of him with everything he’s got, shoving in until their skin slap, pulling out until Phil’s almost popping out then fucking _in_ again, again and again and _again_. He’s not even in heat (and won’t be for weeks yet if Dr. Chiew’s prognosis is correct) and already he feels like he’s going mad, scratching at Phil’s back with his claws, crying out brazenly with every thrust and gratified _snarl_ that Phil makes.

“I’m going to fill you up until you _burst_ ,” Phil growls into his ear, almost unrecognizable from his usual sedate, low voice. “Fill you up with my _babies_ and watch you _swell_ _so_ _beautifully_.”

Phil emphasizes his words with a thrust so ferocious and _deep_ and _good_ that Clint feels it all the way up to his cervix. Clint screams and comes a second time, convulsing even harder in Phil’s arms and around Phil’s huge, hot cock that keeps plunging into him. He can feel the knot beginning to bulge at the hilt of Phil’s cock now, every time Phil’s hips piston against his and _oh_ , it’s going to be _massive_ and he isn’t sure if he can _take_ it. (He can and he _will_.)

“I dreamed of this every night since I - I found out you were - _aahh_ \- gonna be in the Hunt too,” Clint moans, his voice hoarse, his words slurred from his multiple orgasms, his eyelids fluttering. “Dreamed of you. Fucking me. Knotting me. _Loving_ me.”

Phil presses their foreheads together as Phil’s thrusts start to stutter and go erratic. Oh, Phil’s going to come in him soon and yet Phil is still aiming at his needy prostate with each thrust, thinking about him, about _his_ pleasure. It’s driving him _crazy_ with bliss, with _love_ for this man.

“Just like I’m yours, _you’re mine_ ,” Clint rasps into Phil’s lips.

Then, he bares his throat and turns his head to the side, brandishing the bonding gland in his shoulder. A bond between them won’t formally form yet until Phil bites him and breaks his skin over the gland during a heat. For now, a bruise of teethmarks will be enough to prove to others that Phil has claimed him (forever, _forever_ ).

“ _Clint_ ,” Phil groans out, like he’s _dying_ from pleasure or elation or _both_. Phil thrusts into him another time, then another, and then with one mighty push, Phil’s knot also enters Clint’s quavering, raw hole, expanding even more inside him and locking them together. Massive doesn’t even _begin_ to describe Phil’s knot, stretching his inner walls and hole so _full_ that he feels like passing out.

Clint shouts and thrashes when Phil bares his fangs and swoops down and bites his shoulder over the bonding gland. It’s painful, but so _worth it_ as Phil comes inside him at the same time and gluts him with thick, hot seed, as Phil then raises his upper body and his head to the night sky and _roars_ his dominance.

Clint comes a third time to the sensation of Phil’s bulbous knot pressing hard against his prostate, of Phil’s spurting seed plugged up inside him, open-mouthed and smiling.

He thinks maybe he actually dies this time from the surfeit of pleasure, if only for a while.

When he comes to, blinking and limp and _satiated_ , he’s still locked with Phil, his spread legs now lowered to Phil’s sides and his arms stretched up over his head and their hands linked again. Phil is tenderly kissing his eyelids, his forehead, his nose, his cheeks, saving his lips for last. Phil is still so _big_ and _hard_ inside him, twitching from time to time. Phil is now a heavy weight on him, but he doesn’t mind it one bit, basking in the feeling of _protection_ that the warm, solid shield of Phil’s body offers him.

He kisses Phil back when his energy returns to him, now that their savage mating is over (just for tonight) and he can enjoy the pliant softness of Phil’s lips. They kiss and kiss until their lips are wet and puffy and they need to _breathe_ again.

“I still got my boots on,” Clint says, sounding like he’d been screaming at the top of his voice until it broke. (Which he did.)

Phil reluctantly draws away from Clint’s face to regain his own breaths and glances down at their still joined lower bodies with heated eyes. Phil’s lips quirk up as Clint playfully nudges his ass (that gorgeous, _gorgeous_ ass) with the heel of one of said boots.

“I think I tore your pants too much for you to be able to wear them again,” Phil says flippantly, stroking Clint’s sweat-damp hair away from his forehead.

“It’s fine. I can walk back to HQ naked,” Clint replies with a deadpan expression, and for that, Phil bites him on the collarbone, an undisguised retaliation for even _thinking_ about letting other people see him nude.

Yeah. Even jealous Phil turns him on big time.

He is in _so_ much trouble.

He grins and snickers, even after Phil nips him on the tip of his nose. He feels so full, so good, so _content_. He feels like he can confront the whole world and _win_. (He can, he can as long as Phil is with him.)

“Somebody else’s gotten lucky tonight too,” he says, listening to the distant groans and unmistakable noises of avid sex wafting through the cool night air.

Phil is staring at him with those fierce, unblinking eyes, studying his face from forehead to chin and back up as if Phil is committing every inch of it to memory. The intense concentration on him should be freaking him out. Instead, it simply makes his heart _surge_ with immense affection. Makes him squeeze his drenched inner walls around Phil’s knot, and they groan in unison and nuzzle each other’s faces.

“None as much as me,” Phil growls low and soft (and oh man, if Phil talks like this to him all the time, his brain’s going to be inept _mush_ ).

“You better believe it, sir.”

Clint grins up at his Alpha - _his_ Alpha, _his mate_! - and stretches his upper body and arms as much as he can across whorls of crushed, desiccated leaves, exhibiting to Phil’s gaze what Phil _possesses_ now. Phil drags large, warm hands down the length of his arms then back up in soothing, rhythmic worship that soon has Clint purring deep in his chest.

“I think at this point, you should call me Phil.”

Phil has one eyebrow raised, his face deadpan. Phil is also flexing his hips, pressing his knot on Clint’s prostate and Clint huffs out a sound that’s an amalgam of a laugh and moan.

“Been calling you that in my head from the moment we met.”

They gaze into each other’s eyes for a long while. Phil cups the left side of Clint’s face with a hand, then presses and drags a thumb across Clint’s lower lip. Clint doesn’t lick or bite it, riveted as he is by Phil’s eyes so focused on him.

“Since then?” Phil murmurs, and Clint knows that Phil isn’t just asking about Clint thinking of him with his first name all this time, that Phil is asking about so much more.

“I think I was waiting for you to claim me from the moment I was born, Phil,” he whispers, meaning every word.

“And I,” Phil replies, voice also a whisper, “am blessed to be claimed by you, my beloved mate.”

 

 

 

 


	2. ACT II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was suggested to me that I separated the detailed MPREG and childbirth parts of the story to its own chapter so readers who like A/B/O dynamics but not those things can still enjoy the story. So yep, Acts I and II can be read as a complete story if MPREG / childbirth is not your thing.
> 
> While writing this Act, I listened to [Pie Jesu, from Requiem](http://hannibalsmusic.tumblr.com/post/121341785792/hannibalsmusic-hungry-skin-vacant-meat). A sublime song that I felt suited the overall mood for it.

**ACT II:**

 

And tonight, it’s Coulson’s turn to have a nightmare instead.

He’s back in that vast, dusty cave with its open ceiling. He sees Duquesne and he sees Clint lifted up into the air with that knife in the belly and he sees Clint’s blood, _so much of it_ that it’s a crimson waterfall that perishes upon barren ground.

He hears Clint’s excruciating, strident gasps of agony spilling from a wide open mouth. He hears Duquesne’s rough breaths of excitement.

He aims his gun at Duquesne and fires it. Blood erupts from Duquesne’s right shoulder, the one farther away from Clint. He can’t shoot Duquesne in the head in case the bullet hits Clint too and Duquesne is turning around and glaring at him with those black, beady, hateful eyes and Clint is plummeting to the ground with his lower belly torn open and bleeding, _bleeding_ and _dying_.

He lets out a resounding roar that rattles the heavens. He unsheathes his claws and bares his fangs and Duquesne isn’t even fazed by the gunshot wound, charging at him like he’s charging at Duquesne. The blotchy, bloated, hairless skin over what was once Duquesne’s face wriggles with undead worms and demons beneath it. Duquesne’s fangs and claws are long and sharp and blackened.

In this nightmare, Duquesne sinks those fangs into his arm and his chest and his _face_. He fights back with all he’s got, snarling and clawing at Duquesne’s fucked up visage but his fingers stick into the bloated, blotchy, rotten flesh as if it’s _melting_ and his _fingers_ are starting to melt too. Fuck, it hurts and Duquesne is _gnawing on his cheek and nose and eyeball_ and it fucking _hurts_ and Clint’s being swallowed down by a churning, crimson lake and isn’t moving at all, Clint’s eyes are open and milky white, _Clint’s_ _dead_ and Duquesne is tearing his throat out and he screams and _screams_ -

“Phil! _Phil_ ! Please _wake up_!”

He blinks. He gasps and gasps and he blinks again. He sees a familiar plaster ceiling. It’s plain and white and there’s no blood on it, no undead worms and demons squirming beneath it. His shuddering hands fly to his face and his face is whole and intact and devoid of any fang marks. He’s sprawled on his back on a king-sized bed and his t-shirt is damp at the neck and underarms with sweat and so is his hair but at least it’s not _blood_ , it’s not - oh god, _Clint_.

He lurches upright and kicks off the covers. His eyes dart around the semi-lit room and he gasps and calls for his mate, again and again and he doesn’t hear anything, he can’t _breathe_ , he -

“Phil, I’m here, babe. Look at me. I’m here.”

He feels two warm, callused hands cup the sides of his head. He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them and oh, there’s his mate, right there in front of him in a white tank top and dark purple sweatpants, looking at him with such big, concerned eyes. He reaches out for Clint and frantically inspects him for injuries, running his hands all over Clint’s head, neck, shoulders and arms, tugging up Clint’s tank top and running his hands across Clint’s chest and back too.

Then, his hands encounter the bandages around Clint’s lower abdomen.

Time freezes. So do his hands and the breath in his heaving lungs.

He can still hear the pitter-patter of Clint’s blood as it showered down upon barren ground. He can still see the spray of blood from Duquesne’s shoulder. He can still see, _feel_ Clint’s blood blackening his tremorous hands and forearms up to the elbows as he pressed his folded up jacket over the yawning wound in Clint’s belly.

Clint’s blood is still there under his fingernails, no matter how many times he’s scrubbed them.

It will always be there, like the long, horizontal scar under those bandages around Clint’s lower abdomen.

“Phil. _Look at me_.”

Clint is still gripping his head, shaking it. He blinks quickly, then blinks again, harder.

“I’m okay. I’m okay now,” Clint is saying to him, constantly stroking his trembling arms and chest while pumping out assuaging, honey-sweet Omegan pheromones from his scent glands. “See?”

Coulson stares at Clint. He stares and he sees … _Clint_ . He sees his mate’s exquisite face, his mate’s wide, glistening eyes, his mate’s tremulous smile. He sees his mate distressed by _his_ distress, sees how valiantly his mate is trying to conceal it from him, to put away his own anxiety.

He sees his mate, healing, living.

And when he encloses his arms around Clint, crushing Clint to his body, burying his face in the side of Clint’s neck and the steady pulse in it, he finally believes it.

“What happened wasn’t your fault,” Clint murmurs like he has for many nights now, embracing him as tightly, rubbing his back in circles. “It wasn’t.”

Damning, rueful words spew out from Coulson’s numb lips anyway.

“I should have listened to you. I - I should - He was - he was right, _I’m_ the reason he found you, the reason you almost _died_ -”

“No. _No_. Shut up.”

Clint is gripping his head with both hands once more, forcing him to to look Clint in the eye. Clint’s eyes are glistening even more now. They are also sharper, even more resolved.

“You listen to me, and you listen to me good. You saved my life. You’re the reason I’m _alive_ .” Clint’s throat bobs in a long, hard swallow. “You’re the reason I wanna _go on living_ , Phil. _Do you understand_?”

Coulson blinks, and he’s in that cave again and SHIELD medics have surrounded him and Clint. They’re placing an oxygen mask over Clint’s ashen face and pushing him aside. Someone is pulling him farther and farther away, holding strong to him, saying in his ear, _he’s alive, Cheese, he’s still alive_.

He blinks, and above the oxygen mask, he sees that Clint’s eyes are open and blue and gazing back at him, seeing only him. Clint’s head rolls as the medics lift him onto the stretcher. Clint’s eyes linger on him and he struggles out of the hands restraining him and he bolts across barren ground to his mate, clutching the wavering, blood-splashed hand that reaches for him.

Clint’s alive and Duquesne will soon cease to be and he’s quiet now, he’s calm and quiet and so are the undead worms and demons in the shadows of his nightmares.

“Clint,” he rasps, unable to say more past the boulder lodged in his throat.

Clint makes a sound that’s more like a sob than a low laugh, smiling tremulously at him once more.

“Hey. There you are, babe,” Clint whispers as Clint gently strokes his wet cheek with a thumb. “There you are.”

 

<<< >>>

 

When Phil begins fucking him against the wall, supporting him with both arms under his thighs, Clint stares over Phil’s shoulder at the silver platter on the seat of the bolted down metal chair. He stares at the rivulets of cooling blood snaking towards the platter’s gadrooned edge, at frozen, scarred flesh thawing in the stuffy air of the underground cell. He stares at half-open, beady, black eyes now filmed over and milky white.

“Faster,” he gasps into Phil’s ear, clutching at Phil’s bunched shoulders, wrapping his legs tighter around his Alpha. “ _Harder_.”

He rewards Phil’s instantaneous obedience by baring his neck for Phil to bite, by _clenching_ around his mate’s rapidly thrusting cock until they’re both crying out. He twists his hips in a circle while Phil is deep in him, and Phil rewards him with a thrust so _forceful_ that he slides up the wall and his breath is knocked out of him. He moans without reserve. He claws at Phil’s upper back. He laughs soundlessly as Phil bites his neck again, claiming him, _possessing_ him.

And when Phil’s knot swells inside him and locks them together, when he comes all over Phil’s belly, he stares at what remains of the bastard who almost killed him and he feels _triumphant_.

 

<<< >>>

 

As the portrait photographs of the eight homicide victims appear in two rows of four across the wide transparent projected screen, Coulson is relieved that Clint isn’t here with him and Nick in Nick’s office, that Clint is on a short team mission far away from New York itself.

“The last three murders happened in NYC within the past four months,” Nick says as they stand side by side in front of the screen, and Coulson can hear the steely edge in Nick’s voice that reminds him of lightning striking the distant horizon of an obsidian ocean. “The others are spread out across the east side of the country over an eight year period. One in Baltimore. One in Louisville. One in Springfield.”

“And the earliest known two in Des Moines,” Coulson says, staring at the young men in these photos who will never see or know anything again. “Iowa.”

He stares at the young men’s short, blond hair. At their blue eyes. At their strong jaw lines and prominent noses. At their statuses under their photos that confirm them all to be Omegas. He stares at the late Agent Aaron Walsh, the latest victim who had, by all accounts, been a decent, responsible SHIELD agent who was well-liked by his peers.

He stares at them all, and sees a very familiar, beloved face stare back.

He has to consciously open up his hands that have become aching, gritted fists.

“If it wasn’t for Walsh, this motherfucker would probably have stayed off our radar a lot longer. And the way the fucker _exhibited_ Walsh’s body in that alley like he did, with those hooks and ropes? Like a _giant bird_ soaring in the sky?” Nick crosses burly arms over a solid chest, staring at the screen with a scowl. “It wasn’t a coincidence he killed one of ours, Phil. He _wants_ us to know he exists.”

Coulson says nothing. He continues to stare ahead at the photos, at all these men who must be buried in closed caskets, missing their faces that were cleanly sliced off with a blade. While they were still alive. The MEs for all eight cases were unanimous in their assessment of that.

“You see the resemblance, too. Don’t you?”

It takes Coulson a long time just to nod.

Nick lets out a heavy sigh, then says, “You know Barton better than anyone else, him being your mate. You know who may be gunning for him now? This possibly a guy from one of his previous missions?”

Coulson stares ahead at the transparent projected screen, but he sees instead three junior agents in a break room unaware of being spied on. He hears once more the flow of quiet words from Agent Nguyen’s mouth from years ago. He recalls every single word, every detail. Every name.

He recalls one, most of all. The one he’d searched for after Clint told him everything while they sat on the couch in their living room on a hushed, pellucid afternoon. _Hunted_ for through SHIELD’s colossal databases and then through more … unofficial means. (It’d felt particularly good to batter his fists bloody into the face of the former carny who’d _laughed_ when he asked about ‘Jeremy’ and the Swordsman, when the carny said that he hoped Duquesne got what he wanted and ‘fucked the little shit to death’.)

“It’s someone from Clint’s past before SHIELD.”

He senses rather than sees Nick turn his head to gaze at him. He doesn’t return it.

“He may have killed more men before these eight. No … not may. He very likely has. Maybe as far back as _twenty_ years ago. The murders in Des Moines are too _confident_ to be done by someone who hadn’t killed before then.” He lets his hands grit into painful fists again, and he doesn’t care if Nick sees it. “He knows. He knows that Clint is in SHIELD.”

“Who is this guy?”

“The Swordsman. Jacques Duquesne. He and Clint were … co-workers in the Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders when Clint was a teenager. He and another circus performer assaulted Clint in a motel in Iowa when Clint was seventeen, during which Clint tore his face off with his claws.” He finally turns his head to look forebodingly at Nick. “And Duquesne’s specialty was bladed weapons.”

Nick’s heard all he needs to hear.

Coulson leaves Nick’s office hours later, after rounds of calls and commands sent to the relevant departments to pursue and capture Duquesne. SHIELD is also working with the NYPD and FBI on this, which means more manpower for the hunt, more territory covered.

They have to stop Duquesne before Duquesne murders more men.

They have to catch Duquesne, before Duquesne catches Clint and kills him too.

Only in the privacy of his office does Coulson allow himself to collapse on the chair behind his desk, to tremble from the inside out at the uninvited, gruesome visions of Duquesne mutilating Clint with a knife. He has his SHIELD comm pad in hand. He’s opened up a photo on its screen and he stares at it, at Clint curled up on his side in their bed and gazing at the camera with a rare, bashful smile that makes Clint’s crinkled eyes twinkle with fondness. (A smile that Clint bestows upon him alone.) He traces his handsome mate’s whole, intact features with his fingertips, until he is no longer trembling.

They have to catch Duquesne. They _have_ to. And when they do, he knows Duquesne won’t go down without one last stand, without taking down as many others as he can with him to hell. Someone’s going to die, and if there’s any higher power that truly exists out there, if he ever does believe in it, he’ll pray that it won’t be Clint. Prayer’s never worked yet for him, but for Clint, he’ll try again.

For Clint, he will do _anything_.

 

<<< >>>

 

Coulson doesn’t know what to feel, seeing that his face looks exactly the same in the mirror now like it did yesterday. He stares at his reflection as cool water continues to pour from the tap into the rectangular, stainless steel sink in front of him.

He’d expected to see something _change_ after washing all that blood off himself. Maybe see something _crawling_ under its skin, squirming around like undead worms or demons feeding on his mortal flesh. He’d expected to be horrified by what he saw. (To be horrified by what he’s _done_.)

He’d expected to be a _monster_ now.

But he’s … not.

He’s still just a man. Just a man from Manitowoc, Wisconsin who found his calling in an espionage, law-enforcement and counter-terrorism agency ruled by one of the oldest, best friends he’s ever had. Just a man who almost lost his beloved mate to a knife in the belly in a vast, dusty cave hours away from New York City. Just a man who’s killed another man who had killed so many other men. (According to Nick, the last official tally was seventeen. The Feds are still investigating a cold case in Philadelphia before confirming its victim as the eighteenth.)

It had been surprisingly easy to saw through cervical vertebrae. (It’s going to be a _long_ time before he forgets the sensation of bone and marrow separating and _snapping_.)

After drying his face and upper body with a towel, he takes his time to dress in a plain, black t-shirt and jeans. Without the water running, he can hear the vibrating hum of the enormous portable freezer just outside the bathroom and to the left of the bathroom’s door. It hadn’t been as easy to haul the body and dismembered limbs from the bolted down metal chair to the freezer, nor had it been easy to stuff everything inside it.

Duquesne was a giant bastard, in more ways than one.

Coulson glances one last time at the freezer as he stands in the bathroom’s doorway. By this time tomorrow, Nick will have sent a trustworthy cleanup crew to deal with the blood, torso and limbs along with the bathroom, his stained clothing and the van still aboveground. They’ll do a thorough job as only a loyal crew with Nick’s approval can. By this time the day after tomorrow, there will be absolutely nothing left here of Duquesne, except for one section of his anatomy. He’s already left instructions with Nick about leaving that section in a plastic bag in the freezer.

He’ll need it to honor the promise he made to his mate when they married years ago.

He’s greeted by a cool evening breeze when he stealthily departs from the warehouse to an unremarkable, black car parked several blocks away that Nick had arranged to be there. He passes a few pedestrians but they don’t look at him and neither does he look at them. They’re ghosts passing in the night, already forgotten in each other’s wakes.

He doesn’t look at himself in any of the mirrors of the car. He doesn’t think about the numerous times he scrubbed his hands in that stainless steel sink despite wearing gloves the whole time. He doesn’t think about how tautly he’s gripping the steering wheel, about how he wants to pop his claws and rend the dashboard apart and roar and _roar_ until his voice is lost to him.

Clint’s waiting for him at home. That’s all that matters.

Their apartment is tranquil when he enters it and shuts the front door with an almost inaudible click. The lights are on in the living room and kitchen but Clint is nowhere to be seen. He saunters to their bedroom and yes, there’s his mate, there’s his gorgeous, sweet mate slumbering in black sweatpants on their bed, lying on his side with those long, lean legs slightly bent at the knees and those adroit, callused hands tucked under a bulky pillow that cradles that precious head of lush, golden hair.

Clint looks so young when he’s asleep, like a boy. Like the boy that life never gave him the chance to be.

Coulson goes to the bed with noiseless steps and goes down on his knees at its side, facing Clint. He doesn’t think about how easily his knees buckle. He doesn’t think about how his hand is visibly quavering as he strokes Clint’s longer-than-usual hair from Clint’s forehead. He doesn’t think about the bandages around Clint’s lower abdomen, nor about the healing wound underneath them.

What he does think about is how _glad_ he is that Duquesne is dead, how _relieved_ he is that Clint will never have to fear the monster returning ever again. (But it’s going to be a while before he can look himself in the eye in a mirror again, just in case.)

“Phil?”

Clint’s eyes are flickering open. Clint rolls onto his back while rubbing his eyes with a knuckle, snuffling once, and the motions are so boyish, so _innocent_ that Coulson feels _unfit_ to touch Clint with his (tainted) hands. He says nothing as Clint blinks big, vibrant eyes up at him.

“Hey, babe,” Clint murmurs, eyes crinkling. “You’re back. Everything okay on the ‘carrier?”

Coulson quirks his lips up and runs his fingers through Clint’s hair while Clint purrs. He thinks about how sleek the golden strands are between his fingers. He thinks about how smooth and rounded Clint’s skull is under his hand. He thinks about how fragile it is, how easily it can be fractured, _broken_.

He thinks about how easily he can still lose Clint, and the price to be paid to ensure otherwise.

“Yes,” he replies, leaning down to press his lips upon Clint’s forehead. “Everything’s fine, sweetheart. Everything’s fine.”

“Okay. You hungry? There’s still some pizza in the fridge. Thought we could eat it together.”

His lips quirk up even more. This time, his eyes crinkle too.

“Yes. Pizza sounds good.”

Yes, for what he has with Clint, it is a price worth paying. No matter what he becomes.

 

<<< >>>

 

“Oh man … _Oh_. Fuck. I didn’t think - I didn’t know it could hit _so fast_.”

Clint’s face is flushed and shiny with sweat. Clint’s eyes are heavy-lidded and his lips are reddened and parted to let out low moans every so often. Clint is simply curled up in a fetal position on the bed, wearing only a black tank top that’s sodden with sweat, but already he sounds so _wrecked_.

“You’re going to be fine, Clint,” Coulson says, rubbing Clint’s bare arms and kissing Clint on the head once, twice. “I’m going to take care of you.”

Clint’s scent has noticeably changed since ceasing his intake of heat suppressants almost two months ago. During their first mating in the Hunt, Coulson could tell from Clint’s scent then that Clint was still detoxing from the suppressants. Clint’s body had years upon _years_ of the medication to expunge from its system, which is why Dr. Chiew had warned them both that when Clint’s first heat after coming off suppressants strikes, it’s going to last at least a week. It’s going to be _severe_.

Coulson prefers to call it _extraordinary_.

Clint’s body is now a living furnace, a battleground for Clint’s tenacious will and the undeniable, mounting _ache_ of his heat, the all-consuming _lust_ to be fucked and _bred_ (by him, by _him_ ). Just an hour ago, Clint was still able to walk by his side across the Helicarrier’s runway to a quinjet. A half hour later, Clint could scarcely stand upright, much less put one foot in front of the other as they shuffled from the elevator to the front door of their apartment. (And thank fuck they were alone and didn’t cross paths with anyone else from the car to their apartment, with any other _Alphas_ , pumping out so much heat pheromones like Clint was and evoking his rut pheromones. He would have probably _killed_ any Alpha who dared to challenge him for Clint then.)

Once inside, he’d slithered his arms around Clint’s shoulders and under Clint’s knees and carried Clint straight to their bedroom. Clint hadn’t protested at all. _Whimpered_ when he laid Clint on their bed and deftly stripped Clint of a black leather jacket, jeans, boxer briefs, socks and boots. The tank top is still on only because Clint had wriggled away from his hands, panting and curling up into a shuddering ball, already on the edge of coming just from his _limited touches_.

He’s so _hard_ inside his slacks that he feels on the edge himself, his iron control threatened before he’s even removed his own clothing.

And Clint smells so fucking _delicious_ , so _ripe_ for the _taking_.

There’s no time, no _need_ for foreplay this time. Clint’s _dripping_ with sweat and slick, so much slick that Clint’s trembling thighs slide together with no friction. Clint’s hole is already as prepared as it can be, and naturally so. He can shove his cock into Clint right now and he will meet no resistance. Clint will be even _tighter_ during a heat, his inner muscles dictated by the heat to _clinch_ around the cock that pummels and grinds against them, to _milk_ that cock for every drop of seed.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Clint groans, writhing on the bed now and panting again and clawing at the sheets. Clint’s cock looks as hard and _aching_ as his feels, angry red and leaking pre-come and curved up on Clint’s heaving belly. Clint’s eyes are squeezed shut. The long moan that spills from Clint’s open mouth is deafening in their bedroom.

Coulson has to also squeeze his eyes shut. To physically hold himself back from pouncing on Clint and flipping his mate over and _shoving his cock in right now_. Yes, he’s an Alpha, but he is no _animal_. (He’ll stop whenever Clint says so, no matter how far into Clint’s heat they go. _Clint_ is who and what matters most throughout all this, not him.)

“I’m going to get the drinks and food,” he rasps as he retreats from the bed, his breaths becoming deeper, coarser. “I’ll be right back, sweetheart, I promise.”

The vehement _whine_ he hears from Clint almost kills him.

He roughly kicks off his shoes and strips off his tie, jacket and dress shirt as he dashes to the kitchen. He doesn’t give a damn where they land on the floor, and neither does he give a damn about ripping his slacks as he strips them off in front of the fridge. He grabs several large bottles of fresh juices and packaged sandwiches from it and dashes back to the bedroom with them. He and Clint won’t be leaving the bedroom for some time and they’re going to need all the sustenance they can get within reach of the bed once the _mating_ begins, they -

In the doorway, he stops dead in his tracks at the vision of Clint now naked and on knees and elbows on the bed, presenting himself so _sublimely_ to his Alpha. Clint is moaning softly with each breath, his head on his hands on the sheets. Clint’s back is as sinuously arched as it can be, elevating that plump, _spectacular_ ass in the air, offering an unobstructed view of that slippery, quivering, _succulent_ hole desperate to be filled by Alpha cock.

Coulson lets out a sound akin to a groan of pain when fresh, _sweet_ slick gushes from Clint’s hole and trails down Clint’s inner thigh.

“Need you,” Clint rasps. “N-need you _so bad_ , babe.”

Clint is looking at him now with those heavy-lidded, _wild_ eyes, bucking his hips, spreading those muscular thighs even farther apart.

“I’m here. I’m right here, sweetheart.”

He dumps the juices and sandwiches on the bedside table. He strips off his socks and underwear, panting too, his breaths longer and deeper in tandem with Clint’s shorter, shallower ones. His freed cock smacks against his belly, the hardest it’s ever been yet thanks to his rut pheromones _and_ Clint’s heat pheromones suffusing the air. His chest constricts with something brilliant and almost _painful_ as he savors the magnificent view of his mate’s pale yet flushed, smooth skin and luscious curves laid bare for his eyes. He alone has the privilege of seeing Clint this way, for the rest of their lives. _He_ alone has been _gifted_ with an Omega mate as splendid and unparalleled as Clint.

He can only hope his performance as Clint’s Alpha today and for the rest of the heat (the rest of their _lives_ ) will meet with his mate’s approval and satisfaction.

Clint reaches back for him impatiently, tilting up those svelte hips in bold invitation. He clasps Clint’s hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. Clint’s breaths hasten as he climbs onto the bed behind Clint and seizes Clint’s hips with both hands, as he lines himself up with Clint’s eager hole.

He sees Clint’s fingers grabbing at the bed sheets. He hears Clint rasping his name, then again. He feels Clint shuddering so hot and feverishly under his hands.

Coulson will never forget Clint’s escalating, _shattered_ wail and Clint throwing his head back so gracefully when he thrusts in to the hilt in one movement. He immediately sets a brutal, grueling, _beatific_ pace, pounding Clint’s ass hard and fast and _deep_ , gripping Clint’s hips so strongly that there will be ten finger-shaped bruises on them in the coming morning. In other circumstances, he wouldn’t be fucking Clint as ferociously as he does now. He usually prefers more intimate, tender lovemaking with his mate where he can take his time moving in and out of his mate’s cherished body, kiss him and whisper sweet nothings to him.

But a heat is all about _breeding_. Regardless of the fact that Clint is still on contraceptives, what Clint needs is to be _fucked_ as hard as possible, to be _filled_ with Alpha seed, again and again and _again_ until Clint’s body decides it’s had _enough_.

Judging from Clint convulsing from head to toe and coming all over the sheets after his third thrust, crying out his name and numerous expletives, Clint has no complaints whatsoever about his savagery.

Coulson is soon sweating himself and breathing harshly from the incessant, steady thrusting, his muscles rippling with each one. Clint is babbling incoherently, jerked forward and back across the bed with each powerful thrust, telling him how his huge cock is splitting Clint open in the most amazing way, how Clint wants him deep inside forever and _ever_.

God, he wants that too, he wants to stay deep inside Clint, to glut his mate full of his seed and his _babies_ and watch Clint _swell_ with them and give birth to their _family_. Oh, he _wants_. (But he can’t say, not yet, not for a long while yet, perhaps never since Clint is on contraceptives and does _not_ want children. And he’s fine with that, he is.)

After one long, slowing thrust, Coulson arches his neck back with his eyes shut, going still for a moment deep inside Clint, inhaling deeply through his mouth. Fuck, he hasn’t had sex this _potent_ since … well, ever. It’s not the first time he’s had sex with an Omega during a heat, having done that with several exes before. They were pleasant experiences with pleasant people whom he parted with on amicable terms. It just figures, though, that the best sex of his entire _life_ would be with this big-mouthed, obstinate, arrogant, reckless, _beautiful_ , _delightful_ , _exceptional_ Omega man who’s his, _his_.

Sweat rolls down his temple and the side of his warm face as he smiles to himself, his fangs out, and resumes thrusting. His knot is growing, he can feel it catch against the rim of Clint’s puffy, slick hole. Soon he’ll have to push it inside Clint, push it _in_ and _lock_ Clint to him and -

“Phil … Wait. P-Phil. Stop.”

He has to bite his inner cheek _hard_ and tense up his whole body to the point of actual pain to obey his Omega mate, but by god, he _does it_. He ends up motionless with his cock half inside Clint, his strained arms framing Clint’s body while he hunches over Clint’s back. He hears Clint suck in a shaky breath, then another, and then Clint is trying to roll over and oh, _oh_ , he knows what Clint wants and he _definitely_ wants it too.

He withdraws from Clint with a slick noise. They groan in unison at the separation, agonizing even in its fleetness.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, babe,” Clint says, faint and ragged. “Just wanna s-see your face.”

“It’s okay,” Coulson murmurs, kissing his mate on supple, parted lips. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

He snatches a nearby pillow as Clint flops onto his back on the bed, already lifting those long, lean legs to draw him in. He tucks the pillow under Clint’s hips, which tilts them at a wonderful angle for him to push easily back inside Clint. Clint makes an exultant noise in his throat as he thrusts anew, aiming for that sensitive, spongy bump inside Clint over and over until Clint is clutching at his shoulders and panting and making louder, even more exultant noises.

“Wanna see y-your face when you - when you knot me,” Clint rasps, staring up at him with heavy-lidded eyes that _shine_ with so much goddamn _love_. “When you come inside me and _bite_ me.”

Coulson’s hips stutter when he realizes what Clint’s just said to him, what Clint has just _offered_ to him.

“You - you want the _bond_ ,” he says with wide, astounded eyes, going stock-still.

“Yeah, Phil. I w-want it.” Clint nods jerkily, his throat bobbing from a hard swallow. “ _I want the bond with you_.”

And there it is, the explicit consent that he’s been waiting for, _dying_ for ever since meeting Clint for the first time in Nick’s office. Clint _wants_ that mythical, life-changing Alpha-Omega bond that everyone still whispers about in a reverent tone, that bond that he’d once never believed could exist, much less for him. Clint wants it with _him_ , of all the millions upon millions of Alphas in this world.

Oh, _oh_ , there’s no going back now, certainly not for him.

“It’s you,” he whispers, gazing down at his beloved Omega mate, the left side of his chest _throbbing_ , “the one I never thought could exist. But you do. _You do_.”

Coulson is utterly lost when Clint angles his hips to let his cock slide in even deeper, when Clint turns his head to the side to flaunt the bonding gland in his shoulder. He bows his head to nip at the skin around the bonding gland while delivering furious, _swift_ thrusts that go so deep that Clint is urging him on with a litany of cries and moans now, rigid with feet curled downward from the overload of pleasure through his heat-crazed body. He can tell when Clint’s fangs show too, when Clint’s moans begin to rumble like growls and Clint’s claws are out to scratch at his back. He can feel how _hard_ Clint’s cock is against his belly every time he thrusts into Clint and Clint rubs mindlessly against him.

Clint is so _tight_ and _wet_ and _perfect_ , like he was _born_ to be Coulson’s Omega mate. (To be the revered bearer of his _children_.) Clint is _his_. His for _eternity_ , and no one will take Clint away from him, no one, _no one_ -

He raises himself up onto his hands. He gazes down at Clint who’s gazing up at him with an open, quivering mouth and eyes wide with lust and possessiveness and _awe_ , their faces inches apart. His feet slip on the sheets for a second. He feels Clint winding his legs even tighter around his hips. He glances down at the place where Clint is stretched so _incredibly_ around him, at his knot pressing hard against Clint’s sweet, sore hole. He can feel every place that their bodies touch and shift together. He can feel Clint’s heartbeat all around him, thundering with his.

“Yes,” Clint pants. “Lemme see - lemme _see_ you like this.”

He feels Clint _clinch_ around him, and his hips jerk roughly once, twice and then, still staring into Clint’s eyes, he pushes his knot vigorously past the rim of Clint’s hole. It expands quickly even as Clint clinches even more around his cock and knot, as it tears rough, salacious sounds from both of them.

“Yes, _yes_ , bite me, Phil, bite me, _bond me_ , _bond us together_ , do it _now_ -”

He’s sinking his fangs into Clint’s bonding gland and the skin around it before Clint moans another word out. He hears Clint shriek as his teeth break skin and draw blood, but he’s coming and so is Clint, long and lean limbs thrashing madly, flushed cock spurting fertile seed all over their bellies and chests. He grabs one of Clint’s shoulders and scratches down Clint’s arched back with his other hand. He bites Clint’s bonding gland even harder, tasting wet metal on his tongue, his eyes squeezed shut as his own cock spurts again and again deep inside his mate. Clint is quaking around him, letting out keening, euphoric whimpers and he _snarls_ with gratification, overwhelmed by the pleasure that _rages_ along his nerves and throughout his own convulsing body.

When the pleasure _slams_ into his brain, Coulson feels Clint’s fangs sinking into _his_ shoulder and he hears Clint growling too, claiming him, _possessing him_ and he’s gone, _he’s gone_. He’s flying so high that he doesn’t know where he ends and where Clint begins, doesn’t know whether his feet will ever touch the ground again or whether it’s him or Clint’s who’s making those gasping sobs that shake their chests, whether it’s the rush of his own blood through his galloping heart or Clint’s that he’s hearing.

Then, after immeasurable eons among the stars and the planets and Clint, _Clint_ , he falls.

He lands as a feather would upon verdant grass, lightly, smoothly, his eyes opening to half-mast, his tongue sliding out to lick at Clint’s bleeding shoulder and clean it, salve it. Clint is rubbing a bristly face into the crook between his neck and left shoulder, and he can tell that Clint’s eyes are shut, that Clint’s face is damp. He’s still knot-deep inside Clint, and this being sex during a heat, his knot and Clint’s clenching inner walls will keep them locked together even longer than usual.

He groans low as he shifts up onto his elbows over Clint. He feels like he’s been hit by a heavy-duty truck and run over several times after that, but damn, it’s the _good_ kind of physical pain after mind-blowing sex like this. The _best_.

Clint is covering his face with both hands.

“Oh my god,” he hears Clint say brokenly behind those hands, and a chill zigzags down Coulson’s spine, coalescing in his belly as an icy rock.

Did he hurt Clint without knowing it? Has Clint changed his mind after all? Is Clint _regretting_ the bond? Is -

“Be honest with me, okay, babe?”

Clint’s lowered his hands and oh, Clint’s face is tear-streaked and Clint’s eyes are blue and huge and bright as they stare up at him. He nods wordlessly.

Clint presses both palms to his own temples, then rasps, “Is my head is still there on my neck? Is it? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure it went _kaboom_ from all that amazingness, from _you_ fucking me so damn _good_ and then _biting me_ like that and that was so hot, _that was_ so _hot_ , Phil, and I can’t find my head anymore. What am I gonna _do_?”

Coulson is unable to stop his lips from tremoring hard with mirth any more than he can stop himself from pushing his knot against Clint’s prostate. He chuckles aloud when Clint moans and laughs at the same time, his exquisite, damp face _glowing_ with an exuberant smile.

“You little shit,” Coulson says with the utmost affection, his eyes twinkling.

“I _mean_ it! I can’t feel my head anymore and I think my legs have disconnected from the rest of me and I feel like a quinjet _landed_ on me and you are so _fucking big inside me_ and I dunno how I’m gonna survive a _week_ of heat sex this awesome.” Clint licks his lips, his clear eyes twinkling as much. “That was amazing. That was unbelievable. _You’re_ unbelievable.”

Coulson dips his head down to lick into Clint’s mouth in a languorous kiss, nipping Clint’s puffy lower lip, sighing at Clint enfolding those muscular arms around his shoulders and kissing him back so sweetly. He’s grateful for this respite in the heat. He knows that when his knot wanes and he withdraws from Clint’s body, it may only be a matter of minutes before Clint is consumed by writhing, mindless desperation to be fucked and bred again. (And he’ll give what his Omega mate wants, give and give and _give_ until they’re both _senseless_ from the pleasure.)

He feels Clint’s breath upon his lips when they eventually, reluctantly part. He feels Clint’s prominent, charming nose pressing into and resting against his cheek. He feels rather than hears Clint breathe in.

“You smell so _good_ , babe.”

“So do you,” he replies, nuzzling Clint’s face, inhaling Clint’s scent deeply. It’s become even _sweeter_ , sweeter and fresh and _sacred_. Clint smells like spring nectar, like cleansed grass after the rain, like chocolate-mint cake straight out of the oven on a cool afternoon, like the two of them entwined under the bed covers in the morning when they don’t have to go anywhere and all they need is each other.

“We smell like we belong to each other. Like we’re _one_ ,” Clint murmurs into his lips. “After you bit me, I swear I heard your heartbeat like it was my own.”

 _It is_ , Coulson wants to say, _my heartbeat_ is _yours, and yours mine_.

“It must be the bond,” he says instead, raised up on his elbows again to gaze down at Clint. “There have been some cases of Alpha-Omega pairs bonding and becoming so close to each other that their scents become identical, that they can sense each other even when they’re physically apart.”

“Oh yeah? Well, I could do that _before_ we bonded. There’s a reason we’re the best handler/asset pairing in SHIELD, ya know.”

Coulson doesn’t disagree, contented as he is at the very idea that Clint could have _felt_ his presence even when he wasn’t nearby, that Clint _wanted_ to feel him close always. It will be interesting to officially test the capabilities of their bond in the years ahead, to discover just how profound and _intimate_ it is.

He stays still as Clint reaches up to touch the curve of his shoulder, where Clint had bitten him. His eyes flit to Clint’s bitten shoulder, to the no longer bleeding ring of his teethmarks on Clint’s bonding gland. In time, they’ll heal into raised tissue that will declare to all who see them that Clint has been claimed, mated _and_ bonded with an Alpha of his choosing, that Clint is now off limits to anyone else for _life_.

He has never felt such an intense feeling of _rightness_ before with anyone else, with the way Clint touches him with those warm, callused hands, lighting up his very _atoms_ with a single caress across his skin. He knows he never will again. (And in the years and years to come, Clint will tell him that he feels the same way too, that there will never be anyone else for Clint, even beyond death.)

“I love you,” Clint rasps, caressing the sides of his face with both hands, throat bobbing hard.

It isn’t the first time Clint’s said those words to him, but something in the left side of his chest aches so rapturously all the same.

“I love you too,” he rasps in return, swallowing hard past a lump in his throat. “More than life itself.”

 

<<< >>>

 

“I still get nightmares about them,” Clint whispers against the fragile skin of Coulson’s collarbone, holding him tight around his waist under the bed covers after they’ve made love for the first time in his - _their_ bedroom. “I still remember what it felt like to bite into Buck’s neck and rip open his throat with my fangs. I still remember digging my claws into Jacques’ face because he wouldn’t stop even when I begged him to, and I knew he’d kill me if I didn’t stop him first. And I’m scared, Phil. I’m so scared that he’s gonna come back and take everything away from me like I took his face away from him.”

 

<<< >>>

 

“And I promise you,” Clint hears Phil say to him, just before Phil slides the platinum ring onto his finger and kisses him so tenderly, sealing the vow, “I will love and protect you for all our lives. Only death can take me from you, and should anyone be foolish enough to even _try_ to take you from me, I will give you their head upon a silver platter, if you only asked.”

 

<<< >>>

 

Duquesne’s parody of a visage without its prosthetic human mask is truly a horrific vision to behold. What was once a face with stark hazel eyes, angular cheekbones, aquiline nose and thin lips is now a lumpy and hairless mass of scarred skin and deformed tissue with two black, beady eyes and two vertical slits for nostrils.

 _I did that_ , Clint thinks to himself as he faces his former mentor, his would-be _killer_ alone in a vast, dusty, sunbathed cave with its open ceiling almost a hundred miles away from New York City (from Phil). _I made this monster_.

“I ought to thank your _Alpha_ , actually, for you and I to be here today.”

Duquesne’s French accent is gone, replaced by a neutral-sounding Midwestern accent that can’t pin him to any particular state in the country. It’s an unsurprising feat to Clint, who’d spent years in Duquesne’s company and knows how many skills Duquesne could effortlessly pick up just by putting his frighteningly intelligent mind to it. The other carnies had good reasons to respect, to _fear_ him even then. (They were the same reasons he’d been so eager for Duquesne to become his mentor, to the point of blindness.)

What does stun Clint is that Duquesne can speak so distinctly with _no lips_.

“You vanished without a trace after that _night_ ,” Duquesne snarls, revealing startlingly white and _sharp_ teeth. “No one knew where you’d gone, not even Anastasia. You can imagine how _frustrated_ I was to not find a _trail_ to you, dear Jeremy, after what you _did_ to me.”

Clint’s heart jumps to his throat at the mention of the old fortune teller’s name. Jesus, he hadn’t thought about her in _decades_. The last time he’d seen her was the night before the assault in the motel, in her caravan that he used to share with her when he first joined the circus. She’d told him not to go into town, not to go with Chisholm and Duquesne no matter what. She told him she’d _heard_ things, she’d _seen_ things in her dreams that were bad, really bad if he did.

He hadn’t listened. He’d cared about her like family, but he didn’t believe she could actually foresee the future. (No one did except Herman the Giant who left the circus two years before _he_ left.) He’d brushed off her protests and hugged her and said, _I’ll be fine, Nastya, they’re my_ friends _, don’t worry about me, I can take care of myself_.

And look where that’s gotten him.

“Oh, no, your name _isn’t_ Jeremy, is it? Just another lie you spun to me and Buck and everyone else, _Clint_.”

Clint’s belly is roiling with fear, he won’t deny that. But he sure as fuck isn’t going to _show_ it to Duquesne.

“Why, Jacques, did I hurt your _feelings_?”

He smirks wide, flashing his own fangs.

Duquesne also smirks. The action tugs and wrinkles the plastic-like skin of his distorted face. It makes Clint think of bugs and _worms_ wriggling under its surface. It makes him want to vomit.

“No. I can’t say the same about _Anastasia_ , however.” Something akin to an expression of mock innocence now warps Duquesne’s face. “By the time I was done with her, her _feelings_ were the _least_ of what was _hurt_ about her. I put her down like the sad, old bitch she was, and I had to do it because of _you_. Don’t you feel _bad_ now, Clint?”

Clint is unable to control the muscle twitch in his lower jaw. He glares at Duquesne, his lips pressed into a livid, thin line. His gloved hands also twitch then go still.

Anastasia is - _was_ a good soul. She was a lonely, kind sweetheart who couldn’t even bear to swat a spider in her caravan and always shared her food and time with whoever needed them. She cared for him when no one else did, not even his own _brother_ who _left_ him. She didn’t deserve whatever Duquesne did to her (and no, he doesn’t want to even _guess_ , having seen the gory crime scene photos of Duquesne’s more recent victims). _None_ of the people Duquesne’s killed deserved what happened to them.

Another innocent soul is _dead_ because of him.

“Your Alpha wasn’t very _nice_ to Gregory when he paid him a visit, oh … four years ago? Your Alpha _battered_ him until his cheekbones were fractured and he lost several teeth. You remember Gregory, don’t you? The sniveling, sad little Beta clown who _hated_ you so much because the crowd _loved_ you and not him.” Again, Duquesne smirks, his black eyes gleaming with something unholy. “He _screamed_ so wonderfully, I must say, while I tested my new blades on him. He was so _earnest_ in contacting me and telling me that an _agent of SHIELD_ was searching for me, that the agent _hurt_ him when he said that he hoped I would _fuck you to death_.”

Clint’s belly roils worse with fear and _rage_ as Duquesne cackles boisterously, the demented sound echoing in the cave. Phil’s never told him about this _visit_ to an ex-carny. If Duquesne is telling the truth, Phil found Gregory - who he does _not_ remember - and … _talked_ to the guy _after_ he told Phil not to look for Duquesne, to leave Duquesne in the past and let him _rot_ there.

 _Oh, Phil_ , he thinks, his chest aching for his beloved mate who must have been _driven_ to bring Duquesne to justice while keeping him at a safe distance. _Phil_.

“And I _had_ to wonder,” Duquesne drawls, taking a few steps to the right, staring at Clint all the while, “ _why_ would an agent of SHIELD look for me and ask about _Jeremy_ over _fifteen years_ after what happened in Waverly? It was obvious he didn’t visit Gregory in an official capacity, which meant … it had to be _personal_.”

Clint takes a few steps to the right as well, staring back at Duquesne. They circle each other with at least twenty feet of space between them, their backs straight, their shoulders and arms tense. Clint is acutely aware of the stainless steel folding knife in the side pocket of his Hawkeye outfit. He knows Duquesne has at least one blade on his person too.

He knows only one of them is going to leave this cave whole.

“Now how could I ignore a tantalizing trail like _that_ , hm?” Duquesne makes a _tsk-tsk_ noise with his tongue. “He led me straight to you.”

Without breaking eye contact, Clint takes out the stainless steel folding knife and flips it open at his side.

“Finding me doesn’t mean you _win_ , Jacques,” he says, his voice as edged with menace as his bladed weapon. “I’ve learned a lot since we last _met_.”

Duquesne also draws out a bladed weapon from the side pocket of his black combat pants, a wood-handled linoleum knife with a carbon steel, hooked blade. Clint knows far better than to assume its small size means Duquesne is less likely to kill him with it. Duquesne intends to get up close and personal with it, to _cut_ him and _feel_ the blade _hurt_ him.

“Well.” Duquesne grins from ear to ear, displaying both rows of razor-sharp fangs. “That makes the two of us, _boy_.”

For someone as massive as Duquesne, the fucker moves _fast_. Clint needs all his speed, strength and dexterity to evade Duquesne’s lightning-swift stabs. He blocks a low, upward stab aimed at his gut, making sure Duquesne can’t get at his forearms to cut their tendons or veins. He goes for Duquesne’s neck while pushing Duquesne’s armed hand back, but Duquesne’s _strong_ , strong enough to block him _and_ yank him off his feet. He lands on his ass and rolls away to safety a split second later from under a stab at his chest. He leaps out of the way when Duquesne lunges at him, then again when Duquesne swipes at his neck and chest.

He can’t let Duquesne grab him again. If Duquesne does, he knows Duquesne will go for a deep stab through his underarm into his lung or into his neck or up into his skull via the underside of his jaw. All three will end with him dead and he really, _really_ prefers not being dead.

He blocks another high, downward stab with a hand slam on Duquesne’s inner forearm, then a low stab that he also slams away with a palm on Duquesne’s outer forearm. Duquesne is fucking relentless, stabbing at him over and over no matter how many times he parries and tries to stab and slash Duquesne in counterattacks.

Then, he draws first blood when his knife slashes across Duquesne’s left outer forearm.

Duquesne leaps back and glances down at the straight, crimson wound for a moment, as if he can’t believe Clint had managed to do that at all. They’re both breathing heavily, sweating, their fangs bared and their eyes wide and feral, their hearts hammering like war drums. Duquesne then slowly raises his head to stare at Clint.

Clint expects him to say something, to snarl in outrage at being cut by the _boy_ he’d once mentored. Instead, Duquesne charges at him in utter silence, _hacking_ at him violently, propelling him backward and ah fuck, he’s in deep shit now. _This_ is Duquesne no longer holding himself in check. This is Duquesne after almost twenty years of madness and obsession and heinous _serial killing_ with no one stopping him all that time. Twenty years of becoming even _more_ adept at using bladed weapons than he already was.

Clint dodges and parries as best he can, grunting and grimacing when he blocks one particularly mighty, downward stab for which Duquesne uses his full body strength. He feels the impact all the way to his marrow but then, _then_ he sees the fleeting opening for him to _slam_ his hand against Duquesne’s wrist and make Duquesne drop his weapon.

The wood-handled linoleum knife goes spinning out of Duquesne’s hand.

Clint stabs upwards at Duquesne’s neck, already envisioning the folding knife’s blade _slicing_ through the carotid artery in it.

For an instant, sunlight glints off the hooked blade of another linoleum knife.

And then, it’s buried deep in Clint’s lower belly.

It happens so _fast_ that Clint can’t even scream, even as the blade carves a horizontal path through his flesh and organs, as Duquesne _lifts_ him up into the air with the knife still in him. His own knife drops from his lax hand onto barren ground. His hands scramble and claw frantically at Duquesne’s arms. He goes stiff from the paralyzing _agony_ exploding from his abdomen and he gasps and _gasps_ as Duquesne stares up at him with psychotic eyes and that nasty grin.

“You robbed me of my face, my _life_ ,” Duquesne snarls.

Oh fuck, _motherfuck_ , it _hurts_ so bad and he can feel and _hear_ his blood showering down on Duquesne’s arms and to the ground like _rain_ -

“Now, I will rob you of the _children_ you will _never_ have -”

He’s going to die, he’s hurting and bleeding so fucking bad and he’s going to _die_ and Phil doesn’t know he’s here, Phil doesn’t know about the innocent family in Queens that Duquesne took hostage to coerce him into coming here alone, Phil doesn’t know he’s here and _dying_ -

“And then I will rob you of _your_ life -”

And he’s sorry, he’s _so_ sorry he won’t get to talk to Phil one last time, to tell his mate how much he _means_ to him, to thank him for loving him when no one else did, for _everything_ -

“And I will _rip your face off_ and _mail it to your Alpha_.”

Clint gasps and shudders and gasps again as Duquesne’s fanged grin stretches even wider.

“How do you think he’ll feel, knowing that _he’s_ the reason you’re dying now?”

Clint can’t answer. He can’t even _think_. He can only feel pain, devastating _pain_ and … a peculiar, distant _tingle_ in the back of his brain. It’s intensifying by the second, and it feels so _familiar_ , it makes him think of spring nectar and cleansed grass after the rain, of him and his mate entwined under the bed covers in the morning when they don’t have to go anywhere and all they need is each other.

 _Phil_ , his lips move soundlessly to say.

He hears the booming shot from Phil’s gun before he sees Phil himself. He sees blood spray from Duquesne’s shoulder, feels it splatter his left cheek. He hears Phil _roaring_ that ear-splitting, _terrifying_ roar as Duquesne wrenches out the knife from his belly, as he plummets to the ground onto his back.

His vision goes hazy and dark at the edges. His blood is pumping out across his belly and down his sides onto the ground. He hears the rapid noises of ferocious one-on-one combat from faraway, hears pained grunts and enraged snarls and flesh striking flesh. He’s going numb, going into shock. He stares up at the cave’s open ceiling and it looks like an eye, like a god’s all-seeing, _cold_ eye staring back at him. He wonders if gods are just ancient monsters who can’t be seen, who can’t be heard, who can’t be _trusted_.

He wonders how Phil found him. He wonders if he’ll get the chance to say goodbye to his beloved mate after all.

Again, that ear-splitting, terrifying roar reverberates in the cave. It sounds different this time, not a war cry but a cry for help, _need help now_ . He feels rather than sees Phil at his side, hurriedly stripping off a black suit jacket and folding it, taking away his arm and _pressing_ the jacket down on his slashed open belly. It hurts, _it hurts_ and he thinks he cries out and Phil is saying sorry, sorry, _I’m so sorry, sweetheart, I have to, I have to_.

He gasps and chokes and gasps and then he doesn’t have to anymore as more people come into view, as an oxygen mask is strapped over his face and something pricks the skin of his arm that makes the pain go away. He sees Phil being dragged away from him by Fury as he’s lifted onto a stretcher. He sees Phil struggling to free himself as Fury says something in his ear. He sees his courageous, noble, _devoted_ mate and he has to have Phil near, he has to _tell_ Phil all those important things before it’s too late.

Phil breaks free from Fury and runs to him. He reaches out for Phil with a wavering, blood-splashed hand, squeezing Phil’s hand in return after Phil clutches it and doesn’t let go.

He tries to open his mouth, to speak.

He can see Phil’s lips moving, saying something to him, but he can’t hear anything anymore.

He tries to say those six words that he always says to his beloved Alpha, be it as a whisper into Phil’s ear in Phil’s office or a rasp into Phil’s mouth when they’re making love. He thinks that maybe he does say them, when he sees Phil’s face crumple and Phil clutches onto his hand and won’t let go even in the rescue helicopter.

He thinks, as his eyes shut and he tumbles into darkness, that not everyone is as blessed as he to have his beloved Alpha at his side as he dies.

 

<<< >>>

 

“I love you so much,” Clint rasps into Phil’s pliant lips, as Phil thrusts easy and slow into him and cradles him in strong, sinewy arms on the plush cushions of their couch. “Always.”

“And I love you,” Phil rasps in return, as Clint arches up against him and clamps tight and hot around him. “No matter who and what I become.”

 

<<< >>>

 

Five hours since the emergency surgery, and Clint’s dark-ringed, sunken eyes are still shut and unmoving. The surgeons told Coulson that they may stay that way for days, with Clint in an induced coma and in urgent need of quarts of blood for transfusions for the grave amount of it Clint lost before arriving in the Helicarrier’s medical bay. The surgeons told him that Clint will never be the same again, that there are parts of Clint far too damaged to be saved, if Clint is to remain alive.

 _We had no choice but to remove one of his ovaries along with its fallopian tube_ , they said. _We almost had to remove his uterus as well, and we may have to if any complications arise, especially infection. However, the other ovary is undamaged. We can harvest and preserve the eggs from it, if you want us to do that, just in case_.

Coulson once thought that three _other_ certain words were petrifying, be it to utter them or to receive them. Then Clint strode into his life and suddenly, those three other certain words became the _easiest_ words to say, the most _exhilarating_ to receive. (And there are nights when he’s far away from Clint on a mission, that remembering Clint saying those words to him is the only thing that helps him sleep, that helps him to get through another day without his mate at his side.)

But now, oh, now he knows three far more petrifying words: _Just in case_.

Just in case he needs those eggs to be able to have children with Clint. Just in case Clint’s uterus has to be removed after all. Just in case Clint doesn’t recover even after surgery by the best medical team SHIELD (the _world_ ) has to offer. Just in case Clint _dies_.

It’s still a very real peril. Brisson, as blunt a head surgeon as he is, had told him that Clint is still in critical condition, that the next forty-eight hours will determine if Clint survives or succumbs to his injuries.

 _Just be prepared, Phil_ , Brisson said. _It’s up to him now_.

So Clint sleeps the sleep of the grievously wounded, while Coulson maintains a vigil at Clint’s bedside and doesn’t sleep at all. He sits on a cushioned armchair and stares at his comatose mate’s pallid face, at the bruises marring his mate’s burly arms, at the thick bandages binding his mate’s abdomen. He stares at the IV fluid, drugs and blood trickling into Clint’s veins via transparent lines embedded into Clint’s inner forearm. He stares and reaches out to caress Clint’s stubbly cheek with the back of trembling fingers, and Clint is cold, so cold to his touch.

(He’d scrubbed his blood-drenched hands and arms in one of the sinks in the men’s restroom during the emergency surgery. He’d completely forgotten about Clint’s blood on him until he realized other people in the med bay were staring at him, at the blood bath of his arms and shirt. Then he’d fled to the nearest restroom and he’d turned on the tap to full blast and then he’d scrubbed and scrubbed and _scrubbed_ until his skin was red and raw with his own blood boiling beneath it.)

“We got him, sweetheart,” he rasps, and alone with Clint like he is, he doesn’t care that he sounds like his voice has gone through a grater. “We got the fucking bastard before he could run again. And we got to the family in Queens before any of them died from their injuries. They’re all going to survive, Clint, all four of them.

“I knew something was wrong when you wouldn’t pick up my calls. I _knew_ something was wrong when you deliberately used a SHIELD-issued car with a tracker instead of Lola, when you left the city without a word to _anyone_. And when I got to the caves first, I just … somehow I just _knew_ where to go to find you. It was like this … _tingle_ in the back of my head. I just followed it when it became stronger and stronger and then …”

He strokes the crown of Clint’s head. Runs his fingers through golden, short hair now silky and flat after being washed.

He sucks in a long, tremulous breath, hating how sickly his mate’s scent has become from the drugs.

“There you were in the air, and there Duquesne was with his arms soaked in your blood, and in that moment I thought my world had ended.”

In the ensuing silence, all he hears is the muted beeping from the bedside patient monitors flanking the head of Clint’s bed. He has to stare at Clint’s chest to be certain that it’s still rising and falling, that Clint is still breathing, that Clint is still _alive_. He has to lean against the side of the bed to remain upright, to not just keel over and lay his head upon Clint’s chest and allow the deluge of sobs proliferating in his chest (his soul) to pour forth from his mouth.

There will be time for that later, when ( _when_ ) the doctors tell him that Clint’s going to be okay, when he’s alone and no one can see or hear him to realize that the legendary Agent Phil Coulson is just another flawed, fucked up man with a heart so big he had to seal it behind layer upon layer of armor (until Clint strode into his life, until Clint _became_ his life).

He sucks in another long, tremulous breath as he grasps Clint’s limp hand with both of his.

Duquesne is in SHIELD custody now, with Nick overseeing the necessary proceedings to formally charge Duquesne with at least eight counts of first degree murder and to get Duquesne to confess to all of them. (A week from now, Nick will tell him that Duquesne had gleefully confessed to all eight along with nine other murders, detailing each one to such excess that the senior agents recording the confessions had to receive intensive counseling later.) Duquesne will never be a free man again just for his first degree attempted murder of a SHIELD specialist agent like Clint. Duquesne is looking at lifelong imprisonment in isolation at best, with zero chance of parole.

But is that due punishment that fits the crimes? Or will it be Duquesne’s last laugh?

The chances of Duquesne _not_ ending up in a state facility for the criminally insane will be slim to none, psychopathic and sadistic serial killer that he is. Unlike in a prison, Duquesne will receive far _kinder_ treatment in such a facility. Duquesne will receive regular meals and medication, a bed, a room to himself for the rest of his life. Duquesne will probably be _studied_ by psychiatrists to broaden their knowledge on abnormal, violent Alphas and their behaviors, and become the subject of their published papers in established psychiatric journals. The press will clash in a vulturous frenzy over rights to exclusive interviews and strew his name and past - oh god, _Clint’s_ as well - across the papers and on television and the internet, especially if they find out about how his face became so mangled, if they find out that it’s the catalyst for his serial killings. Duquesne will go down in the history books as one of the country’s cruelest serial killers, all the more nefarious for targeting Omegas.

Duquesne will be a _star_ , just like he was when he was the Swordsman in the now long-disbanded Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders.

Duquesne will be _alive_.

And as long as the monstrous fucker lives, there will _always_ be the risk of him escaping from captivity, free to harm Clint again and _kill_ Clint.

“It won’t be our world ending,” Coulson whispers into the fragile skin of the back of Clint’s hand as he holds it to his face. “Not ours.”

Clint remains still, silent and cold. Clint looks like he’s already dead.

Ages later, Nick enters the room with slow, steady steps. Coulson doesn’t turn around to look at his old friend. Slumped in the armchair, Coulson stares on at Clint as Nick stands behind him and to his right, a bastion of authority and support in black leather and an eye-patch.

“I want his head, Nick,” Coulson growls, still staring at his comatose mate, still sounding like his voice’s gone through a grater, like his world may still end right before his eyes. “ _Look_ at what he _did_ to my beloved mate.”

He feels Nick’s hand upon his shoulder, feels it squeeze his shoulder. He is unashamed of the wetness that springs to his eyes. It won’t even come close to being the first time Nick sees him emotional, and Nick won’t judge him for it, not now, not this time.

“Do you remember the warehouse?” Nick asks quietly after more ages later, his hand still on Coulson’s shoulder.

Coulson still doesn’t look at Nick. He turns his head only the slightest to the right, expressionless. Inside his mind, however, he is rapidly dredging up images on that warehouse from his tremendous mental data banks, recalling a nondescript warehouse with exterior brick walls, sandy concrete floors and squalid, rectangular windows in the Bronx. A warehouse that only he and Nick know about. A warehouse with a soundproofed, underground cell and its bolted down metal chair.

“Yes,” Coulson says, and now in his mind, he sees himself dressing all in black, armed with a pistol, a tranquilizer gun and a syringe of methohexital, tugging a black mask over his head. He sees himself speeding up in an unmarked van to the SHIELD armored prisoner transport vehicle ferrying Duquesne from one glorified cage to another, firing his gun at the wheels of the escort car in front of the transport vehicle, backing up as it spins out of control and the transport vehicle crashes headlong into it and rolls onto its side. He sees himself knocking out fellow SHIELD agents with the tranquilizer gun, sees himself opening the back doors of the downed transport vehicle to find the agents in it unconscious from the impact but not Duquesne, chained up in a coop and watching him, _grinning_ at him.

Duquesne won’t be grinning so much when he plunges the syringe of methohexital into his carotid artery.

By the time he drags Duquesne down to the cell from the van, Duquesne won’t be grinning at all.

“It’s a last resort, Cheese,” Nick says in the present, knowing exactly what’s been going through his mind. “The _last_. You _talk_ to me before you do _anything_. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, boss,” Coulson replies, his eyes clear once more to gaze on at Clint, but what he really wanted to say was, _it’s the only resort, Nick, to protect my mate like I promised him. The only one_.

 

<<< >>>

 

The first time he and Phil make love after the knife fight with Duquesne in that vast, dusty cave, he has to contend with the persisting impulse to obscure the scar across his lower belly from Phil’s sight. It’s so stupid because Phil’s _seen_ it already. So many times.

The first couple of weeks after being discharged from the med bay, Phil sometimes had to help him just to get out of bed. Phil often had to help him walk around their apartment, letting him go off on his own only when he was within sight and reach. (Normally, hovering like this would annoy the shit out of him, but it isn’t everyday that he’s disemboweled with a knife by the fucker who attacked and tried to rape him when he was a teenager, and still being _alive_ has made him all the more appreciative of a doting, _faithful_ mate like Phil.) Phil had to help him every time with bathing, to wrap his healing wound in waterproof covers, to change the bandages afterward and apply the required ointments.

So yeah, it’s so _stupid_ that he feels humiliated about it when he already has so many other scars on his body. It isn’t like Phil’s going to _divorce_ him just because he has this _humongous_ one now.

But he knows how much Phil _wants_ children, despite Phil not saying a word to him about it. He knows, every time Phil rubs his belly after they knot during his heat, every time Phil sees an Alpha-Omega couple with a baby and his beautiful, blue eyes go fleetingly soft with longing.

And this goddamn scar is a sobering reminder to them both that Phil’s dream is just that now. An unattainable dream.

Only as long as Phil chooses to stay with him. (A defective Omega like him.)

He does his best to not let this distressing thought show on his face as he sits on the side of their bed and pulls his black, v-neck sweater over his head. He’s evidently thinner than he was before and his muscles aren’t so defined anymore but hey, a prolonged stay in the med bay after getting _disemboweled_ (and after a strenuous round of infection) can do that to a guy.

(The excuse doesn’t guarantee Phil will still find him as attractive, though. He’s heard of Alphas getting turned off by their Omegas after long periods of illness where their bodies or scents changed, and _boy_ , has his body changed inside and out.)

After dropping his sweater to the carpeted floor, he gazes up at Phil who’s standing in front of him and gazing down at him. Phil’s eyes are crinkled and warm. Phil is still garbed in a dark blue t-shirt and black sweatpants. Phil is totally silent as he lithely goes down on his knees, maintaining eye contact all the while.

Clint would be lying through his teeth if he says the mere action - an Alpha voluntarily going down on his knees in front of an Omega - doesn’t turn him on so damn much. Phil has a way of flipping stereotypes on their heads like that and making it look so _sexy_.

Phil knee-walks forward to insinuate himself between Clint’s spread thighs, still locking eyes with him. Clint happily accepts the kiss that Phil bequeaths his lips, then again, again, until Phil plants more kisses down the vulnerable line of his throat. He cups the back of Phil’s head with both hands as Phil nuzzles the sparse hair on his chest and breathes his scent in deeply. He gasps as Phil tongues and sucks on his nipples while caressing the arched length of his back, his fingers curling in Phil’s thin hair. His hands begin to quaver when Phil goes lower, when Phil gets nearer and nearer to the scar on his lower belly.

He doesn’t realize how jagged and _loud_ his breaths have become until Phil’s mouth is poised over that very scar, until Phil gazes up at him and keeps looking into his eyes as he plants a kiss on it, then another, then another along its length, saying more than any words can.

“You asshole. I wanna punch you in the face,” Clint whispers after Phil has kissed the entire length of the scar, lavishing as much love upon it as Phil does upon any other part of his body.

Phil hugs him around his hips and gazes up at him with large, ingenuous eyes and quirked lips. It’s a really cute look on Phil, but Clint can’t say so because he’s too busy trying not to bawl like a baby and embarrass himself.

“How about you kiss me instead and let me make love to my gorgeous, incomparable husband?”

As it turns out, it’s one of Phil’s excellent ideas (not that Phil’s other ideas aren’t excellent too, but he is _always_ down for this particular idea). They end up on the bed with Clint lying on his back, his arms stretched up over his head and Phil on top of him and tucked in the cusp of his spread thighs, arms also stretched up, their hands linked (just like they did during their very first mating so many years ago). Phil takes his sweet time pushing that long, fat cock into him. Phil kisses him over and over and steals his breath away. Phil stays buried inside him, barely withdrawing before thrusting in now and then, keeping them stimulated while dragging out their lovemaking for as long as possible. Phil feels heavier, warmer to him. Phil feels heavy and warm and _solid_ , a protective presence between him and the rest of the world.

Phil feels like home.

After they’ve come (with him going off like a damn _rocket_ in Phil’s hand and Phil filling him up inside), they lie on their sides facing each other under the covers, their legs intertwined and Phil stroking the side of his neck with gentle fingers. Clint is the first to fall asleep, and he’s certain of that because Phil is still staring at him with those crinkled, warm, _beautiful_ eyes as his own eyes flutter shut. Phil’s done this countless times, regardless of whether they’re here in the sanctuary of their apartment or whether they’re on a mission alone, just the two of them (just the way he likes it), and after what happened to him, he’s fine, just fine with it.

The monsters roaming this world they live in won’t get him, not anymore, not with Phil watching over him and shielding him.

 

<<< >>>

 

A short while after a home-cooked dinner of peanut noodles with shredded chicken and vegetables at home, Phil drives them to a nondescript warehouse in the Bronx in an unremarkable, black car that Clint immediately pegged to be SHIELD-issued. (The only car Phil will ever _own_ is Lola, and he knows Phil will never drive Lola to where they’re headed, not unless they want Lola stolen and stripped down and never, ever seen again.) Clint isn’t sure of what to make of the abrupt trip or of Phil’s atypical reticence all the way to their destination.

He doesn’t ask any questions, though. He silently gazes out the windshield and sits relaxed in the front passenger seat in his black leather jacket, white t-shirt, jeans and boots. Phil, similarly attired but in a navy blazer, grasps his hand without hesitation when he reaches over to hold Phil’s.

Phil’s hand is trembling. Phil’s scent is tinged with a slight sourness that he learned years and years ago to recognize as anxiety. Phil’s expression is inscrutable, a smooth slate.

Clint still doesn’t ask any questions.

He hasn’t come this far with his best friend, his husband, his Alpha mate in all things to not trust the man now.

Clint feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle when Phil parks the car several blocks away from the warehouse. Phil must have a reason to not want even a dull, SHIELD-issued car to be seen and recalled near the place, and he highly doubts that it’s an innocuous one. Whatever is in the warehouse, it’s something Phil doesn’t want anyone else to know about, something truly for _his_ eyes only.

And still, he doesn’t ask any questions.

In the dimness of night, passing under warm street lights that skirt the sidewalk, they amble to the warehouse side by side with Phil leading the way. Phil is still so reticent, so _withdrawn_ , as if walls have suddenly risen and surrounded Phil, separating him from Clint. It makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle even more. It makes his belly go cold and clench. He resists the urge to seize Phil’s hand and tug Phil nearer to him, to check that his mate is still _here_ with him and not just a figment of his imagination.

When they arrive, Clint doesn’t see anyone else around. There’s a stray dog or two loitering around in the shadowed alley next to the warehouse, and he kneels on the sidewalk and whistles softly at them to get their attention. The dogs look at him but don’t come any closer, eying him with wariness. They stay at a distance even after he snaps his fingers and says, “Come here, boy. Come on.”

Phil stands beside him and says nothing. He glances up at Phil and sees that Phil is observing him with eyes that are blatantly fond and yet … somber. Mournful. As if some clock is ticking down to a calamity and Phil is the only one who knows what it is. (As if _he_ is going to be the source of it, and what is up with _that_?)

Phil walks ahead as Clint stands up, already forgetting the dogs. Clint follows him to the side of the warehouse, to a door painted black, and watches Phil unlock it with a silver key on a metal key ring that he’s never seen before (and he knows all their keys, like the keys to their apartment, to their private safes, to Lola). It’s dark inside the warehouse until Phil switches on rows of fluorescent lights hanging from the rafters of a ceiling thirty-two feet high with exposed metal purlins. Clint blinks a few times from the sudden glare, then gives the spacious interior of the warehouse a once-over.

It’s completely empty, its concrete floor sandy from lack of use and its rectangular windows boarded up from the inside. It’s chilly and the air in it is stale. It’s as average as a warehouse gets, a place nobody would bother inspecting with anything more than a cursory glance. No one’s been in here for a while.

But Phil _must_ have come here at some point in the recent past, to have something for him to see. (Maybe as recent as earlier today, since Phil was out the whole afternoon while he napped in their bedroom.) Something important enough that Phil won’t even _tell_ him what it is. Something that’s gotten Phil so _nervous_ that his usually confident mate can scarcely look at him.

“Phil?”

Phil doesn’t respond to him. Instead, Phil walks up to what appears to be a rectangular door in the cement floor. It’s colored identically to the cement, with no visible hinges, and with the insertion of another key from that metal key ring by Phil in a hidden lock, the door is opening up by itself via gas struts pushing it up and to one side. A straight flight of brick stairs is leading down into a dark basement.

“Phil,” he says again, faintly. “What is this place?”

Phil is now standing at the top of the stairs, one foot on a lower tread, looking at him with those somber, _old_ eyes. Phil raises his right hand with its palm up and wordlessly offers it to him to take. Neither of them comment on how it’s visibly trembling.

Without hesitation, Clint goes to Phil and grips Phil’s hand, weaving their fingers. Phil squeezes his hand so hard that it almost hurts as they go down the stairs into what seems to be a basement, but he doesn’t comment on it either. When Phil switches on the ceiling lights here, he sees that it’s more of an underground level than a basement. They’re standing in a long corridor with featureless, gray walls and a concrete floor, with a single door to the left. Like the trap door, this door is colored identically to the wall and has no visible hinges. Phil releases his hand to open the door with yet another key on that metal key ring.

Clint is taken aback by the astringent smell of bleach that assails his nostrils after the door fully slides open. Holy shit, it’s like somebody _marinated_ the room with it. He waves one hand in the air in front of his face while Phil strides into the dark room and turns right and presses a switch on the wall.

“Oh man, what is with the _bleach_? What _is_ this place -”

The words die in Clint’s mouth when he sees the bolted down metal chair in the center of the windowless room, when he sees the metal cuffs on it that are unmistakably for _constraining_ someone to it. He freezes in place when he sees the gadrooned-edged silver platter and its high, silver dome with its ornate, engraved band and reed handle on the seat of the metal chair.

He stares at the silver platter with wide, bewildered eyes. He approaches it with tentative, precarious steps, suddenly unable to quite sense the floor beneath his feet anymore, like there’s a cavernous pit under him. He sees Phil go to stand next to the metal chair with equally tentative steps and he glances at Phil to see Phil watching him silently, _cautiously_.

Phil’s scared. Phil’s _scared_ of him. Of how he’s going to _react_.

He deliberately draws in a deep, _calming_ breath as he gazes down at the silver platter and its dome. He’s standing with his beloved mate ( _beloved_ , always) in an underground cell in a nondescript warehouse in the Bronx, but he is also careening back in time, remembering himself seated next to Phil on the couch in their living room while Fury sits on an armchair perpendicular to the couch.

 _Duquesne was kidnapped by a masked assailant while en route to the detainment facility in Ossining two days ago_ , Fury had said to them without fanfare, his one eye blazing.

He’d cursed aloud, his hands gritting into fists on his lap, the healing scar on his lower belly abruptly aching like crazy. Fury had said nothing about his swearing. Phil had said nothing either. Phil had simply stared at Fury, his face inscrutable, an utterly smooth slate. Fury had stared right back, saying nothing for many minutes. Then, as if from a million miles away, Fury talked about a manhunt already underway for Duquesne and his unknown accomplice, about Phil returning just in time from his mission in Bogotá to participate in the pursuit (to protect Clint while Clint was still recuperating, still exhausted and frail, but neither Phil or Fury said this out loud).

He had no idea when Fury left their apartment. He’d wilted on the couch with his maimed insides churning into an ocean of nausea and _dread_ , his fists _vibrating_ from it, and then Phil had returned from the front door and pulled him into a crushing embrace and said against his hair, _it’s okay, everything’s going to be okay, sweetheart, I promise, it’s going to be okay_.

And Phil … Phil had indeed kept that promise, amongst others.

Back in the here and now, Clint gazes at his quiet mate with large, unguarded eyes, at his mate’s equally large, unguarded, _glistening_ eyes. They stare at each other in a profound silence that settles over them like a warm, thick cloak.

It’s Phil who eventually breaks the silence, rasping to him, “I promised you, on the day we married, that I would do this to anyone who dared try take you from me.”

Clint swallows hard even as he gazes on at Phil. Yes. _Yes_ , he remembers.

He glances down at the silver platter and its dome again. He draws in another deep breath, paying no heed to the stink of bleach, and lets it out as a noiseless sigh. He reaches for the dome’s handle and then lifts the dome off the platter in one smooth movement. He lets the dome plunge from his hand to the floor at his side. It hits the cement floor with a clang.

Being a SHIELD specialist agent, he’s seen his share of grisly spectacles, the kind of shit that would make regular folks scream and run for the hills and never look back. He’s _created_ his own share of grisly spectacles, whenever he has no choice but to kill an enemy on a mission with an arrow through the eye or a bullet through the brain.

So as he stares down at Duquesne’s upright, decapitated head thawing on the silver platter, at its half-open, milky eyes and sagging lower jaw, he doesn’t know what to feel or think. His shocked brain is probably still processing the fact that he’s staring at a decapitated head that once belonged to his former mentor, his _friend_ in the circus. A decapitated head that _Phil had removed from its body and placed on a silver platter for him to see_.

His shocked brain is still processing the fact that he _isn’t_ afraid of Phil even after this. That he _loves_ his mate even more, that Phil loves him _this_ much, to hunt down anyone who harmed him to the end of the world and make them pay with blood.

“Did you hurt him?” he whispers, still staring down at Duquesne’s decapitated head.

He doesn’t know if he’s asking Phil or his dead former mentor (his attacker, his tormentor, the psychotic bastard who almost raped him and _killed_ him, the _fucker_ ). He doesn’t know how much this has cost his beloved mate. He doesn’t know if Duquesne had managed to claim one last victim before dying, one who _least_ deserves to be on the list (all because of him, _him_ ).

It’s Phil who replies, “Yes.”

Clint stares down at the decapitated head. He stares and stares and his chest starts to tremor and so do his hands, his claws unsheathing and his fangs baring themselves as he snarls, “ _Good_.”

Long minutes pass before Phil asks, “What would you like to do with it?”

Clint finally looks at Phil, his claws and fangs retracting, his heart slowing, his chest and hands firm once more. The walls around Phil are gone. The slight sourness from Phil’s scent is gone. Phil’s hand grasping the backrest of the bolted down metal chair isn’t trembling. Phil’s eyes are no longer somber or afraid.

“I was thinking about giving it to the dogs outside. But that would be insulting to their palate.”

Phil’s lips quirk up at that.

Clint gazes down at the decapitated head once more. In the wake of his rage, his chest throbs with something weighty and wintry, something akin to pitiless snow falling and falling and suffocating the world, _life_ beneath it.

“He killed all those guys because of me,” he rasps, swallowing hard again. “He killed poor Anastasia because she cared for me. He even killed an ex-carny who _helped_ him. He almost killed that couple and their two kids in Queens, just to _get_ to me.”

“No.”

Clint glances at Phil, who looks him in the eye and says, “He killed them because he was a sadistic, serial killing piece of shit. He _chose_ to kill them.”

 _Like_ I _chose to kill him_ , he hears Phil not say aloud.

They’re still looking each other in the eye when Clint raises a hand with its palm up and wordlessly offers it to Phil to take. It doesn’t tremble at all. Without hesitation, Phil comes to him and grips his hand, weaving their fingers. Clint reaches for Phil’s other hand and holds it too. He bunts his forehead against his mate’s and rubs them together. He smiles softly at Phil’s tiny huff of pleasure, of _relief_.

When he leans back, he gazes into Phil’s big, beautiful blue eyes. He sees nothing at all of Duquesne in them, or of wriggling, undead worms and restless demons. He sees only his handler, his best friend, his lover, his husband, his Alpha mate, his everything.

He sees only Phil.

 

<<< >>>

 

Duquesne’s disappearance is marked as a closed case by SHIELD, the NYPD and FBI six months after the fact, with all official inquiries from other agencies choked off and blanked out even earlier. Duquesne’s identity and capture by SHIELD are never discovered by the press, much less broadcast, and in the eyes of the press who’d christened him the Face-Off Killer while reporting on the serial killings of blond Omega men across the country, the unidentified murderer remains at large.

Eight months after the fact, there are no more fresh news articles about the Face-Off Killer, on the internet or on paper. The press becomes far more interested in reporting about the latest political shenanigans leading up to the next presidential election and the never-ending, compounding wars in the Middle East and exotic viruses threatening humanity.

Nine months after, it is as if Duquesne had never existed. His SHIELD file disappears, as do his files in other agencies. All video, audio and image files from the SHIELD detainment center of him are wiped out. All SHIELD reports involving Duquesne’s attack on Clint in that cave also disappear. Any mention of his name and references to him are also erased from the internet (and considering how low a profile Duquesne had kept since the assault in that motel in Waverly, there were next to none apart from a couple of trivia websites referring to the Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders).

Coulson doesn’t question how Nick pulled it all off. Neither does Clint.

And he will never tell Clint that it had all been at his behest to Nick.

 _Bury him_ , he’d growled to Nick, as Clint slept the sleep of the grievously wounded in the Helicarrier’s medical bay. _Erase him completely from existence_.

 _Okay, Cheese_ , Nick had replied, turning a blind eye to the dampness of his red eyes, grasping his shoulders with both hands, _okay_.

“C’mon, put away the damn thing and _snuggle_ with me already.”

Try as he might (and it’s a lackluster attempt, really), Coulson can’t stop the tender smile that curves up his lips at his delectably nude mate’s grousing. Clint _is_ snuggled up to him already, tucked against his side with one arm over his belly and both legs entangled with his under the bed covers. He lifts the comm pad in his hand above his head when Clint swats at it like a cat would. He bursts into a chuckle when Clint climbs over and up his body just like a cat would to snatch the comm pad away.

“All right, _all right_ , I’m putting it away. See?”

He switches off the comm pad’s display and places it on the bedside table next to the lit lamp. When he turns back to face Clint, Clint yanks him down onto the bed and under the covers, eliciting another chuckle out of him. They lie on their sides, face to face, their legs entangled once more, their heads sharing one pillow.

Clint says his name softly.

“What?” he asks as softly, gazing at Clint’s appealing visage, at his mate’s eyes half-lidded with drowsiness and serenity. He breathes in his mate’s crisp and sweet scent. He smiles a closed-lipped smile as Clint strokes the hair above his ear with gentle fingertips.

“He’s gone,” Clint murmurs after a millennia. “He’ll never hurt us again.”

Clint’s eyes are half-lidded, and they are sharp, so sharp and perceptive.

Coulson shuts his eyes even as his smile turns bittersweet and tremulous, as Clint continues to stroke his hair. It’s ridiculous of him, he knows, to keep scanning the news and SHIELD channels _and_ other unofficial channels for any hearsay of Duquesne’s decapitated and dismembered corpse to surface. He knows Nick’s cleanup crew did a meticulous job of disposing of Duquesne’s remains and everything else. He _knows_ Nick had personally seen to it that _nothing_ about Duquesne’s disappearance can ever be linked to him or Clint (or SHIELD).

Still. Still, this world they live in teems with monsters. Far crueler monsters than the likes of Duquesne.

He will protect his beloved mate, his _family_ from them all.

“He’s gone, Phil. He’s never coming back. But _us_?” Coulson opens his eyes when Clint takes his hand and holds it against a belly that’s still flat and firm (but not for long, not for long). “We’re still here, babe.”

Coulson swallows visibly and presses his hand over the long, faded scar there. Over the new life growing behind it.

“Yes,” he whispers, his eyes crinkled, his smile now steadfast. “We are.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And in the final Act, look forward to more sex (including pregnant!sex), more comfort after all the hurt, more Clint and Coulson bonding and of course, baby!


	3. ACT III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, I did not expect the third and final Act to be as long as Acts I and II combined! That's right, people, we are talking over _28,000 words_ of Clint and Coulson dealing with male Omega pregnancy, childbirth and Pheels diabeetus galore to the _max_. 
> 
> And speaking of childbirth, the one depicted in this Act is based off the real life experiences of several women I know who've experienced natural childbirth. So if you read it and you (possibly) go _whoa_ at some of it, yep ... this and that actually happened, haha. 
> 
> The soundtrack I listened to while writing this Act is Michael Nyman's [Scent of Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wCvquy_BXeU), the first three minutes of it anyway.

**ACT III:**

 

On his third evening in Yangon, Myanmar, Clint is throwing up onto the gnarled roots of a towering Burmese rosewood tree. The nausea smacks into him so swiftly and ruthlessly that he’s hunched over and seizing from his body’s effort to retch before he even _thinks_ it. All he _can_ think afterward, after he stops dry heaving and staggers away from the sour-smelling mess on the ground, is thank fuck that nobody’s around to see some random white guy vomiting his guts out in public.

His ear piece comes to life with four, sedately spoken words.

“Barton. Talk to me.”

Whatever discomfort his body is experiencing abates upon hearing his handler’s familiar, bolstering voice. (His mate, his beloved mate who’s always there for him, no matter where they are.)

“I’m okay, sir,” he says as he resumes his journey on foot back to their hideaway in the heart of the city where Coulson is, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Probably that greasy fish curry from dinner.”

As appetizing and filling with rice as it was, just thinking about the red oil that saturated the curry makes him feel like gagging again. _Ugh_ , he won’t be eating _that_ again any time soon.

“Be glad you didn’t order the goat testicle curry, then.”

Clint smiles to himself as he walks on, exiting an alley to join the ever bustling, polyglot crowd of Burmese, Chinese and Indian people on the sidewalks bordering colonial architecture, gilded pagodas and high-rise buildings alike. He passes a multitude of riders on scooters and bicycles, vendors offering deep fried snacks, a burgundy-robed monk and a traffic sign written in local alphabet as he murmurs, “I’m still gonna try it if we have the time. I heard they’re like chunks of pure lard.”

Coulson doesn’t say anything, but he can _tell_ that Coulson is still concerned about him.

And okay, maybe thinking and talking about eating _chunks of pure lard_ isn’t the wisest idea right now, if his gurgling stomach is anything to go by.

“I’m fine, sir,” he says quietly, pulling his black leather jacket tighter around his body. “Didn’t run into anyone. No trouble.”

“Acknowledged,” Coulson replies as quietly.

Clint knows this quick job is nothing more than a milk run, just him passing a dead drop to leave some much needed information for the SHIELD sleeper agents in the city while Coulson babysits him. It’s the first time since his showdown with Duquesne that he’s left the States on a mission with Coulson, the first time he’s alone on the job with his handler. Under any other circumstances, he would be pissed off as hell to be saddled with a job like this, as would Coulson. A job like this is an _insult_ to the finest handler/asset pair in all of SHIELD and no, it’s not a brag, they _earned_ the rep by working smart, hard and fast together on the toughest missions and maintaining a hundred percent success rate for the last six years. (And no other team has yet to achieve the same.)

But hey, it’s not every day he almost fucking _dies_ from being eviscerated and loses internal organs along the way _and_ almost dies again from infection. It ’s not every day that he wakes up from a days-long coma to see his beloved mate looking like absolute hell, staring at him with bloodshot, glistening eyes as if his whole world had almost ended. It’s not every day that he wakes up from _another_ days-long coma, even more feeble and laid low, to find his mate passed out with a head of tousled, dark hair laid on his chest, his mate’s arm around him as if he’d literally been trying to stop death from taking him away.

The doctors would later tell him that his heart had begun to fail, that they had to shock him with those electric paddles while his bone-weary mate watched helplessly from the sidelines, slumped against a wall like it was all that kept him standing. For seventeen seconds, he _had_ died.

So he hadn’t objected when Fury gave them this little job (getaway). Neither did Coulson.

 _You_ _’re serious_ , he’d said with relish to Fury as he and Coulson sat side by side in identical armchairs in front of Fury’s ostentatious desk. _We are gonna go to Yangon as a couple on a romantic holiday. As a_ sugar daddy _and his_ cub.

Fury had, unsurprisingly, shot him a very unimpressed look.

 _As a_ married couple, _with Phil being a businessman to close a deal in the city while he_ _’s there. It’s as solid a cover as it gets_ , Fury retorted, _since you and Phil_ are _married. Mated and bonded, even. No one will question it_.

Clint had turned to his mate then and with big puppy eyes, said, _Daddy, I want a new bow and quiver of arrows and a purple Bentley_.

His mate had, unsurprisingly, also shot him a very unimpressed look. (The twinkling eyes ruined it, though.) Fury had sat there behind his desk with a totally expressionless face (and he’ll find out in the coming years of birthday parties and babysitting with Fury’s wife and two daughters that this is what Fury looks like when he’s laughing his ass off deep inside at one of his oldest, best friends).

But hey, _hey_ , it really is nice to _relax_ for once, to do a job so easy it’s wham, _bam_ , thank you, ma’am with their eyes shut and their arms tied behind their backs. It’s been _years_ since he and his Alpha had gone on any semblance of a holiday, anyway, and he isn’t going to complain if it’s on company dime.

He slips into an aging, four-story, fin-de-siècle building and goes up a winding, wooden staircase to the second floor. He halts at the second plain, mahogany door on the right of a narrow hallway, but he doesn’t knock on it. He doesn’t have to. Coulson can hear him via the minuscule microphone attached to the collar of his t-shirt. There’s also that discernible tingle in the back of his head again, telling him that Coulson’s in the studio apartment beyond the door, that Coulson’s approaching the door to open it.

Man, he _loves_ the bond he has with his Alpha mate.

He goes inside the apartment as silently as Coulson came to the door, with a hand brushing Coulson’s forearm as he passes the other agent. He collapses onto a beige-colored couch with red, square pillows while Coulson locks the door and secures the place, sprawling on it with his arms spread out, basking in the blast of cool air from the air-conditioner. He is _not_ a fan of high humidity and the tropical monsoon climate.

Clint removes the earpiece and mike as Coulson saunters to the couch and sits beside him. The heat must be getting to Coulson too, what with Coulson not wearing his suit jacket and rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt to the elbows. Coulson is still wearing his tie, though, a dark green one with lighter stripes.

Their unwritten rule on the job - one they’ve followed consistently for many years now - is that as long as Coulson is wearing a tie, they are strictly handler and asset. Every other aspect of their relationship is pushed into a box in their heads and kept there until the mission is over. (Compartmentalization, as Dr. Langley still likes to call it.) As long as they’re on an assignment, even a cinch like this, they can never truly let down their guard. SHIELD has a fuck-load of enemies worldwide, not to mention the _personal_ enemies that agents may have (and _jesus_ , does he know what it’s like to be fucked up by one). The risk of ambush if they’re pegged as SHIELD agents, of being abducted and dragged off to be tortured and interrogated for SHIELD secrets is always there.

But well, there _is_ a reason he and Coulson are the finest handler/asset pair in all of SHIELD. They can handle themselves just fine in an attack. (The more, the merrier!) And he _knows_ what Coulson is capable of doing, if they ever do get ambushed by anyone dumb enough to even _try_. He knows how far Coulson will go to protect him, to _save_ him, and Coulson knows how far _he_ will go to do the same, regardless of whether Coulson has a tie on or not.

On the couch, Clint and Coulson gaze at each other silently for a minute.

He stays still as Coulson, still locking eyes with him, reaches up with one hand to the knot of his tie and slowly tugs it down. He stays still and watches as Coulson flips up the crisp collar of his dress shirt and lifts the loop of the tie past his head. He watches Coulson fold the tie neatly. Watches the tension seep away from Coulson’s shoulders. Watches the _warmth_ fill back into the gorgeous, gallant Alpha’s big blue eyes, watches those pliant lips quirk up in that little not-smile.

And then, the man before him is Phil, just Phil again.

“What happened?” Phil asks, cupping his cheek with one large, callused hand.

He holds Phil’s hand to his face with one of his own, pressing his nose and lips to its warm palm. He smells clean skin and rich spring nectar and earthy, cleansed grass after the rain. It’s his favorite scent of all time (of them, just them and no one else).

“Like I said,” he murmurs, kissing Phil’s palm once, “it was probably just the fish curry.”

Phil makes a noncommittal noise through his lips. Clint identifies it as Hmm No. 15, also translatable as ‘I will make this ambiguous, nice sound that makes it seem like I agree with my most perfect, always-right, super-hot mate but I am actually still concerned about him and won’t say it’.

Before Clint can say anything else, Phil leans forward and presses his nose into his cheek and _sniffs_ him. Phil’s beard stubble _tickles_ , damnit. Clint cracks up from the sensation, from his mate sniffing him _again_.

“What is _up_ with you sniffing me so much!” he says with an amused grin, pressing his palms on Phil’s chest as if to push him back. “You’ve been doing that so much. Like, for _weeks_.”

Phil moves lower down to the side of his neck and sniffs it as well, inhaling long and deep. It’s hot as _hell_ to Clint, but he’s also still very much amused by his mate’s behavior.

“You smell … even _better_ lately,” Phil murmurs after sitting up to look him in the eye. “I’m not sure how to explain it.”

Clint shrugs and puts on a smug expression.

“Yeah, I’m awesome and unique and exceptional like that.”

In seconds, Phil is hauling him to the king-sized bed nearby and showing him how awesome and unique and exceptional _he_ is with that long, hard, fat, _marvelous_ knotted cock and oh, Clint has _no_ complaints about _that_. This _is_ an assignment masquerading as a romantic holiday, after all. (And Phil only has himself to blame for not letting him brush his teeth first before jackhammering him through the bed and trying to kiss him.)

After making love two more times in the night and early morning, they really do dine on goat testicles curry for brunch later in the day in a cozy, air-conditioned restaurant. They sit face to face with their feet touching (and rubbing, but no way is he going to admit they’re playing _footsie_ ) under the rickety, wooden table.

"Far from the first pair of balls to be in my mouth,” Clint says, smiling impishly at Phil before digging his fangs into aforementioned balls, making Phil snort and his eyes crinkle.

They are unexpectedly tasty. And yes, just like chunks of pure lard.

Phil smacks him on the head when he asks with an overly innocent expression, “Do you think _your_ balls would taste and feel the same if they got cooked in curry?”

Hours afterward, they’re on a commercial flight to (SHIELD-friendly) Bangkok, where a quinjet is waiting to take them back straight to New York City. On the journey there, Clint is napping with his head on Phil’s shoulder while Phil is browsing through paperwork when nausea smacks into him again, so rapid and intensely that it wakes him up in a cold sweat and shivers. He lurches out of his seat and darts to the lavatory in the back of the quinjet. He hears Phil calling his name before the lavatory door shuts behind him but he can’t answer, he can’t, he’s bent over the toilet bowl with one hand on the wall and vomiting what feels like _everything_ from inside his stomach.

Okay. _Okay_ , so eating goat testicles _wasn't_ such a good idea.

It’s a testament to how severe the vomiting was that his ears are ringing and it’s only after he’s rinsed his mouth and washed quivering hands that he hears the knocking on the lavatory door, hears Phil saying his name several times.

“Hi, babe,” he says after opening the lavatory door and seeing his mate standing there with overtly concerned eyes. (Doesn’t help that he sounds like his voice went through a wood chipper.)

“You threw up again?”

“Yep.” He glides his hands down the lengths of Phil’s sinewy arms over Phil’s dark gray jacket, appreciating the firmness and strength in them. “I’m fine. I feel much better already.”

Phil follows him back to their seats and sits down first before he does. He tucks himself into Phil’s side and rests his head on Phil’s broad shoulder again, feeling chilled and tuckered out. Ugh, he _really_ does not like throwing up. What he does like (although he isn ’t going to admit it just yet) is Phil pushing his nose into his hair and sniffing a few times. What is _up_ with that? Does he smell _that_ good to Phil? (Even after _puking_?)

"You're not even being subtle, ya know,” he mumbles, his eyes shut, his lips curving up. “I’m _fine_.”

Phil responds by sliding an arm behind him and pressing a hand to his belly, rubbing it with relaxing, up-and-down motions. He likes the feeling too (although he isn’t going to admit it either any time soon).

Yeah, vomiting aside, this was one of his most favorite missions _ever_. One of the nicest holidays he’s been on. Maybe for the next one, they can spice it up with a gunfight or two, or an arrow-shooting fest with the local bad guys. It’d be _great_ foreplay for him and Phil. _Yeah_.

After a cursory debriefing with Fury (who’s eaten goat testicles curry too, what do you know), they scuttle back to their apartment in Brooklyn and crash in bed until late morning. For breakfast, Phil deals with the scrambled eggs and bacon while he prepares toast with fruit jam and butter. He _adores_ Phil’s scrambled eggs … which is why he is doubly frustrated when the nausea slams into him _again_ while they’re consuming said breakfast at the kitchen counter.

Phil is reading something on his comm pad (which is something Phil’s been doing a lot lately too) as Clint jumps up from his seat and scampers to the nearest toilet bowl. He hears Phil calling his name, hears Phil’s chair screech across the floor as Phil stands up but he can’t answer his mate, he can feel the bile burbling up his throat, oh crap, _here he goes again_ -

He’s on his knees this time while he pukes out whatever he’s eaten so far and maybe every other meal he’s had in his entire _life_. It takes him a long time to realize that Phil is in the bathroom with him, propping his head up with one hand over his forehead and rubbing his back with the other. He dislikes the dry heaves most. They make his stomach cramp and nothing comes out of it except really sour-bitter goop. _Gross_.

“Okay,” he croaks when he can, standing up in one motion with Phil’s assistance and swaying in place. “Burmese food does _not_ agree with me, man.”

He shuffles to the sink and rinses his mouth a few times. Phil flushes the toilet then goes to stand beside him. Phil is rubbing his back once more when Phil says, “I don’t think this is food poisoning.”

Clint runs a hand across his mouth as he stands upright and faces Phil. He frowns in puzzlement at his mate.

“Huh? This isn’t food poisoning? What else would make me throw up like this?”

Phil gazes at him with speculative eyes.

“It could be emesis gravidarum.”

Clint’s brow furrows more even as he smiles.

“ _Wha_? What’s that in English?”

Phil purses his lips into a thin line, then murmurs, “Morning sickness.”

When the two words settle into Clint’s bewildered brain, _really_ settle in, he gapes at Phil with what must be a comical, stunned expression, his mouth opening into an ‘o’. Morning sickness? _Morning sickness_? But that ’s something that’s only experienced by people who are … _who are_ -

“You … you think I’m …” Clint clears his throat loudly. “Pregnant.”

“Well,” Phil replies, and god, Phil looks so calm and collected and _hopeful_ , “you’ve been off contraceptives for months now. And we’ve gone through at least one heat since.”

Clint blinks. Then he blinks again, and again. He is suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to cross his arms over his belly. To _protect_ it.

“I guess …” He clears his throat a second time and does cross his arms over his belly, gripping his flanks (and he’ll find out later that this is paternal Omegan instinct asserting itself). “I guess we should … get some tests.”

Phil nods and says, “The pharmacy two blocks down should have them.”

“Yeah ... _Yeah_. Okay.”

Clint’s eyes flit down to the vicinity of Phil’s chest, then back up at Phil’s serene face. He’s not completely sold on him being pregnant instead of having food poisoning. Not yet. He only started getting nauseated and throwing up when they were in Myanmar. It really is just as likely that his digestive system can’t tolerate the foreign food (and it’s not the first time this has occurred so there’s precedent).

Then again … it doesn’t explain his scent becoming so much more appealing to his Alpha mate. For _weeks_ , already. Food poisoning sure as heck doesn’t influence his _hormone levels_. And his last heat was … two months ago.

Holy crap.

 _Holy crap on a flying, deep-fried cheese stick_.

Maybe … maybe Phil is _right_.

Clint blinks again. Sucks in another deep breath. Gazes with wide eyes at Phil, at his calm, collected and hopeful Alpha mate who gazes back with crinkled, luminous ones.

“Okay,” he murmurs, his lips curving up into a tremorous, equally hopeful smile. “Let’s go get those tests.”

 

<<< >>>

 

Both Coulson and Clint breathe a whopping sigh of relief when Dr. Chiew verifies that Clint won’t be losing his uterus, while Clint is recuperating in the medical bay from the ravaging bout of infection. It would have been best if Clint didn’t have to lose _any_ internal organs, period, but losing one ovary is still preferable to losing _both_. With the uterus intact and finally healing plus a functional ovary and fallopian tube, Clint’s chances of bearing children has risen from ‘almost zero’ to ‘very cautiously optimistic’, with the solemn warnings that even if Clint does become pregnant, the risks of miscarriage and other complications are high. Very high.

“I highly recommend that Clint wait at least six months after discharge,” Dr. Chiew tells them, standing at Clint’s bedside, commandeering their attention and larger than life despite being just five feet tall, “if you intend to have a baby soon.”

Clint doesn’t say anything to confirm or deny that. Clint doesn’t say anything at all about having a baby until five months have passed after being discharged from the medical bay.

“I wanna stop taking contraceptives,” Clint whispers to him in the dim solace of their bedroom, nuzzling his cheek and huddling closer to him under the covers. “Is that okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers back, his heart humongous and throbbing in his chest as he encloses Clint with his arms and feels Clint’s shaky sigh against his collarbone.

And that’s all they have to say about it, really. Whatever happens, will happen. Whatever doesn’t … well, Coulson’s used to being inundated by setbacks and challenges. (To not getting what he wishes for dearly.)

He still has Clint. He still has his asset, his best friend, his lover, his husband, his Omega mate. His _everything_. That’s what matters to him.

Clint shares this mindset with him. Their low expectations of a pregnancy results in them being able to enjoy heat sex without worrying about its consequences, to be fully engulfed by the ferocious pleasures of each other’s bodies as he fucks Clint harder and longer than he ever has before on their bed, knotting Clint over and over and coming deep inside his thrashing, moaning mate who begs for more, _more_. He pumps so much seed into Clint that by the third day of the heat, it gushes out of Clint ’s slick, puffy hole whenever he pulls out of Clint’s limp and _insatiable_ body.

“Oh fuck, that’s so good, that’s so _good_.”

Clint can scarcely speak above a whisper, can scarcely _move_ by the fourth day, but every uttered word is infused with pure pleasure. For Coulson, even the slightest, subtle roll of Clint’s hips while he’s knot-deep in Clint is killing him with the same pleasure.

“Are you all right?” he asks, sounding just slightly less wrecked than Clint, pulling Clint back closer and tighter against his exhausted but extremely satisfied body with both arms.

“Phil, babe. I have never been more all right,” Clint rasps, and their shoulders shake together with silent laughter.

Yes, no matter what the outcome is of this heat sans contraceptives, they still have each other. There will be future heats. More chances.

Coulson kisses the flushed, sweaty skin of Clint’s neck and shoulder, nips at the bonding gland with its raised teeth marks. (His, _his_!) He rubs at Clint’s lower belly with his left hand. His fingers brush across the scar there, across healed skin and flesh, and he exults in the soothing heat, the vibrant _life_ emanating from his beloved mate.

The monster who harmed his mate is dead, but he and Clint are here. Still here.

Unfortunately, so are their nightmares, although they lessen in frequency and loosen their claws on them with the passage of time. It takes at least two months after Clint is discharged for Clint to no longer spend every night enslaved by the horrors he’d lived through. For Coulson, there are no languid, dreamless nights until the day he’s gripping Duquesne’s decapitated head with a gloved hand in a windowless cell under a nondescript warehouse in the Bronx.

He finds it almost amusing that his nightmares diminish only _after_ committing such a brutal act of violence. He isn’t sure what it reveals about him. Sometimes, he isn’t sure if he’s just a monster in a person-suit who doesn’t realize he is one. Sometimes, he isn’t sure whether it’s Duquesne that Clint sees in his nightmares or _him_.

“ _Sshh_ , you’re safe, Clint. You’re at home with me and you’re safe.”

It still makes his chest _ache_ to see Clint in the throes of a nightmare, to see Clint clawing at the bed sheets with a face so pale that it’s gray, to smell the sickly tinge of fear to Clint’s scent, to hear Clint let out those heart-wrenching gasps of terror. Tonight, he knows Clint is dreaming again of the moment he was stabbed and mutilated in the belly from Clint’s whimpers of _oh god_ and _hurts_ and _Phil_ (the one that slices Coulson to the quick, every time).

But unlike the nightmares before Duquesne’s demise, Clint now allows Coulson to embrace him even during the nightmare. Clint no longer physically lashes out in any way. Instead, even entrenched in fearful visions of the past, Clint instinctively rolls towards him and clutches at his clothes and seeks the intimate pulse in his neck, the heavy beat of his heart.

“That’s right,” he murmurs into Clint’s hair, stroking Clint’s nape and upper back. “You’re safe now. He’s gone, sweetheart. He’s gone. But we’re still here, remember?”

Clint shivers against him and whimpers again, a tiny and plaintive sound. He can feel Clint’s facial features set in an anxious frown against his neck.

“We’re home, in our apartment in Brooklyn. We’re in our bed, sleeping after another day of physical therapy with Dr. Latham and counseling with Dr. Langley. We had wheat bread-and-chicken sandwiches for breakfast, and I’m remembering that because you were craving for pork instead and you were pouting as I explained to you _again_ why red meat is bad for your recovery.”

Clint makes another tiny sound, not a plaintive one. Clint isn’t shivering anymore. Clint’s breaths have slowed down and deepened.

“Yes, you were,” Coulson murmurs on, now against the warm, smooth skin of Clint’s forehead. “You didn’t hesitate to stick out your lower lip at me. You even made it _tremble_ when I said no the second time, don’t deny it.”

He shifts down the bed just enough that he’s face to face with Clint, that he can gaze at Clint’s now tranquil expression, at Clint’s shut eyes and their long lashes, at Clint’s supple lips lax in slumber.

“And when we were back home again, we lazed on the couch and talked and napped, and I watched you sleeping and I thought to myself, ‘I want to capture this moment in my hand. I want to be here, with you, forever.’”

He grazes the pointed ends of Clint’s eyelashes with his fingertips. He traces four invisible lines down Clint’s stubbly cheek with his fingers. He watches his beloved mate sleeping peacefully, free from the nightmare, and he thinks to himself, _forever isn_ _’t long enough, it isn’t_.

“It’s just you and me here, and no one else,” he whispers into Clint’s lips. “Just you and me.”

 

<<< >>>

 

For the first time in Clint’s life, he’s actually too nervous to take a damn leak.

“Goddamnit, this is ridiculous,” he mutters, laughing at himself, holding his flaccid cock over the small, plastic cup in his right hand. “I’m standing right here in front of the toilet and I still can’t _go_.”

Phil - _bless_ him, man - doesn’t ridicule him for it at all. Instead, Phil lets out that (cute) huff of laughter from behind him, then presses a high forehead to his right shoulder.

“If you touch me, you are gonna make this _harder_ ,” Clint says, and Phil is snickering aloud now against his shoulder. When he realizes what he said, so does he.

“Do you want me to get a bowl of water? To put your hand in?”

“Asshole,” he retorts, his teeth glinting through a broad grin.

“Wrong hole to concentrate on right now, Clint.”

They snicker together again, Clint leaning back into Phil who reaches up to grasp his upper arms, forehead still on his shoulder. Clint is glad that they’re laughing together, though. It’s breaking up any tension in the room. Distracting him from the six as-yet-unopened home pregnancy tests on the marble counter next to the porcelain sink.

All he has to do to get things rolling is to _pee_.

“Okay … okay, hold on, I think I can do it now. I can -”

Clint snorts and laughs again but oh yeah, _oh yeah_ , there he goes tinkling into the cup, fucking _finally_. He manages to fill about three-quarters of it, and although it’s his own urine, he still wrinkles his nose at it as he places the cup on the marble counter.

Clint does the first test, removing the testing stick from its wrapper and dipping its absorbent end into the cup for ten seconds. He flattens his hands on the counter and bows his head as he waits. He bites his lower lip when Phil places a solid hand over his on the counter and says nothing. When the ten seconds are up, he lifts his head to look at Phil in the mirror. Phil, standing next to him, smiles back at him.

“We have to wait for five minutes to get an accurate result,” Phil says as Clint takes the testing stick out and places it on the counter with the result window up.

“Okay,” Clint mumbles, ignoring the wavering of his hands.

Clint is too anxious to leave the bathroom. He paces with his arms crossed over his chest while Phil stands leaning against the white, floor-to-ceiling cabinet next to the sink, a cool and composed figure with loose hands at his sides. Phil doesn’t stop him from pacing or say anything about it, and he appreciates it. He really does.

After those five minutes have passed, he has to take a deep breath before glancing down at the testing stick. He stares at the crossed blue lines in the result window and frowns. One of the lines is really faint, so … what does that mean? Is it a positive?

“Hm. I think this test is defective,” Phil says.

Clint lets out a growl of frustration and rolls his eyes. Phil snorts, then runs a hand down his back in commiseration. (And if Phil can sense how taut the muscles of his back are from nervousness, Phil doesn’t say anything about it either.)

“Let’s do two more tests,” Clint says, and Phil replies, “Okay.”

These two testing sticks also require a five minute wait for results. Clint leaves the bathroom this time and flings himself onto the couch, tapping one foot incessantly on the floor. At some point, Phil walks by and ruffles his hair and strokes the back of his head.

Before he knows it, they’re back in the bathroom and the two testing sticks are on the counter top, ready for their perusal. Clint stares at the vivid, vertical red lines of the upper stick, then at the vivid blue cross of the lower stick. He blinks, and blinks, but the lines remain, stating starkly what Phil had suspected (and correctly deduced).

“Positive,” he rasps, blinking again, tucking his hands under his arms.

“Positive,” Phil murmurs beside him.

They turn to face each other in unison, Clint still with hands under his arms and Phil drawing in a long, deep breath that only quavers at the very last moment. They stare at each other for precious seconds, their eyes wide and unblinking, unwilling to forfeit even a microsecond of the enticing, _solacing_ sight of each other, still so after all these years together. To remember each other like this, to remember how _right_ they’ve always been and will always be, how _fated_ they were to meet and _fall in love_ with each other and _stay_ together … and become a _family_.

“One more test,” Clint whispers, swallowing visibly. “Three outta three, okay?”

“Okay,” Phil whispers in return.

They linger in the bathroom. Clint leans against the counter with his hands tucked into his underarms now, trying to keep them still, trying to keep his _jaw_ still too by gritting his teeth. He doesn’t respond to Phil running a hand down the side of his neck and along his shoulder. He doesn’t think he _can_.

He doesn’t turn around to face the counter as Phil inspects the testing stick behind him. He feels Phil’s hand flat upon his belly. Feels Phil’s hand press down, feels its long, callused fingers spread as if Phil is _protecting_ his belly, protecting what’s _in_ it and yep, there goes his eyes, flooding hot and wet even before Phil speaks.

“It’s positive.”

His arms have become smothering bands around his chest. He blinks hard and grits his teeth even harder but his vision keeps blurring and the muscles of his lower face just fucking won’t _obey_ him anymore and his hands are shaking and ah shit, his nose is blocking up and Phil just has to kiss him on the forehead and open up the _floodgates_.

He hears someone sniffle audibly. He feels his whole face contort and his lower jaw wobble and he lets himself be crushed in an embrace, hugging Phil’s shoulders as tightly, burrowing his wet, searing face into Phil’s long neck. Phil clasps his nape. Rubs his lower back in circles with his other hand. Phil is trembling too.

“We’ll have to -” Phil clears his throat and sucks in a rocky breath. “We’ll set an appointment with Dr. Chiew as soon as possible.”

Clint nods against his mate’s neck, and sniffles again.

“Yeah,” he croaks.

“We’ll have to clean out the store room. Figure out where else to put the stuff. And, baby stuff. We have to get baby stuff. Baby clothes. Bottles. A cradle. And a crib when the baby’s bigger.”

Constricted as his throat is, Clint manages to chuckle a bit. It’s so uncommon to hear his top-level SHIELD agent of an Alpha mate babble like this. It’s _reassuring_ that he isn ’t alone in his concerns, his _excitement_.

“And diapers,” he says, his voice husky though firmer.

“Diapers,” Phil reiterates. “Many, many, many diapers.”

“Can we paint the walls purple?”

“Of course we can. Purple is a lovely color. Royal and mysterious and magical.”

“Just like me.”

“Of course.”

And then, they’re laughing together, softly and candidly, still hugging each other and swaying slightly in place in front of the bathroom sink and mirror. Clint shuts now dry eyes when Phil kisses him on the cheek.

“I’m scared, Phil,” he whispers into his mate’s ear, scared of possible complications, of his maimed body failing them, of losing their baby. (Their _baby_.)

“So am I, sweetheart. And it’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay,” Phil whispers back, and Clint thinks that maybe, in time, he will believe that too.

 

<<< >>>

 

In the refuge of their Brooklyn apartment, Coulson and Clint sit facing each other on the window seat overlooking the main street. Clint is ensconced in a pile of bulky pillows, a multi-hued, Aztec-print blanket tucked around legs and rotund belly. Clint had been gazing out the window at the city hubbub ten floors down before Coulson sat down on the side of the window seat, but Clint is welcoming of his presence. ( _Always, babe_ , Clint would surely say, if he were to ask if that’s so.)

Clint appears at complete peace with himself, with the world around him. Clint is heavily pregnant by now, a mere two weeks away from the estimated birth date of their baby. Clint is wearing Coulson’s light gray cable knit sweater yet again, and he loves that Clint is so attached to it, to the fact that it’s _his_ and smells like him and feels warm and comforting like him.

Clint reaches out to touch his cheek with a gentle hand. Clint smiles at him, so unreservedly, so sincerely, and he thinks, _I_ _’m glad I killed that monster. I’m glad he’s dead, that you can smile like this and no longer dream about him_.

He leans forward and presses his face to Clint’s neck to smell Clint’s ( _their_ ) scent, to breathe it in another time, to suffuse each and every cell of his body with it. He feels Clint’s fingers rubbing the back of his head and neck, cupping it in affection. He sits up and then sits quietly while Clint studies his face from forehead to chin, as if Clint is searching for something ephemeral in the dunes and valleys of his visage.

He wonders what Clint is seeking. He wonders what it is that Clint sees when Clint looks at his face.

 _Is it me you see_ , he wants to ask, _or do you see someone else_?

He blinks, his hands suddenly going cold, his insides suddenly shivering.

 _Do you see me at all_ , he wants to ask, _or do you see only_ him?

“I’m here,” he says, the two words tremorous at their edges.

Clint gazes on at him, just like he did so many years ago when they were sitting on the couch instead, speaking of monsters not dead yet and letting them stay asleep in the past (but he had to wake them up, he just had to, didn’t he and Clint almost _died_ because of it). He hears Clint speak in his mind, in their past.

 _I don_ _’t want you to turn into them. I don’t wanna lose you_.

And he hadn’t said, _you won_ _’t lose me, you won’t_.

He hadn’t known then what would happen to him, what would _change_ about him if he committed the same acts a monster did. He hadn’t wanted to make a promise he couldn’t keep.

Now, though, he knows.

Now, he can make that promise. Now, he can mean it, and keep it.

“I’m right here, sweetheart. I’m not lost,” he rasps, his throat bobbing from a hard swallow. “How can I be, when I’m with you?”

Clint grips his hands and weaves their fingers together over his gravid belly. Clint gazes on and on at him with those beautiful, large eyes, and smiles that unreserved, sincere smile and says, “I know. I see you, Phil. Only you.”

 

<<< >>>

 

After the word of Clint’s confirmed pregnancy spreads through the Helicarrier like wildfire, Coulson is deluged with congratulations and well wishes from his fellow SHIELD agents for days on end. Clint experiences something similar, although Clint has significantly fewer people approaching him, and always with Coulson at his side. Coulson has no objections to that. As decreed by social norms, a pregnant Omega person should not be approached by any other Alphas without the Alpha mate’s explicit approval. They do so at their own risk, and pay the price should the Omega’s Alpha mate rebuke it and … _chastise_ the offending Alpha.

Coulson and Clint may not always agree or even follow those social norms, but to their relief, nobody on board the Helicarrier is idiotic enough to push Coulson’s Alpha buttons.

Well, except Nick goddamn Fury. But that’s more a case of Fury being an even more formidable, _terrifying_ Alpha who’s the leader of SHIELD and one of Coulson’s oldest, best friends of his entire _life_ , who’s definitely earned the right to tease and make jabs and drive him up the wall with his - how does Clint put it, again? - assholishness.

"I believe congratulations are in order, Cheese," Nick says with a grin, enveloping him in a bear hug and patting him firmly on the upper back twice. "You're going to be a great father."

They stand next to Nick’s ostentatious desk in Nick’s vast, ostentatious office on board the Helicarrier. Nick is back after a months-long mission in Burkina Faso, and it’s good to see his old friend in person again. Against Nick’s shoulder, Coulson shuts his eyes and lets his visage break into an expansive smile. He pats Nick’s upper back as well. After they step back and look each other in the eye again, their expressions go deadpan.

"Second to me, of course,” Nick says.

"Of course,” Coulson replies, nodding once.

They gaze at each other for a moment. Then, Nick laughs aloud and hugs him once more and hey, he can grin as much as he wants to, it’s not every day that he gets hugged by Nick and congratulated for becoming a _father_ soon.

Yeah, he’s going to be a dad. He’s going to be a dad, and he’s going to love his child like it’s his very _heart_ walking around outside his body (and it _will_ be exactly like that, he just knows it) and he will never, ever stop loving his child with everything he’s got. He can’t wait for his and Clint’s baby to be here with them.

Nick is sitting behind his desk while he sits in one of the armchairs in front of it when he requests for parental leave. Nick, the _asshole_ , makes a show of pulling up a transparent projected screen displaying his SHIELD profile and zooming in on the section detailing whatever leave he’s taken for the duration of his employment.

“ _Hm_ ,” Nick says, focusing his one eye on the terribly sparse section far too much and steepling his fingers, “either HR has been _slacking_ with their updates of your profile, or I’m looking at a guy who hasn’t taken a legit _holiday_ in well over _twenty years_ of service.”

“I had that vacation in Yangon. _And_ in Bora Bora five years ago,” Coulson says, one eyebrow raised, pointing a forefinger at Nick.

“Yangon was an _assignment_. And that _vacation_ in Bora Bora only happened because your mate _forced_ you to stay put in the _hospital_ while you recovered from the gunshot wound to your arm,” Nick retorts, also with one eyebrow raised.

“I strolled on the beach at sunset. I _cuddled sting rays_ with Clint.” Coulson raises his other eyebrow. “I think that _does_ constitute as a _vacation_.”

“Jesus fuck, and Sharona thinks _I_ _’m_ an unromantic bastard who’s married to his _work_ ,” Nick mutters, utterly deadpan, and that’s when Coulson loses it, chuckling behind one fist pressed to his mouth.

“I will have you _know_ , that Clint and I don’t need holidays because we already have a fucking _wonderful_ sex life between missions -”

Nick throws his hands up in the air in horror and says, “I don’t need to _hear_ this shit -”

“And sleeping in and having sex with my mate is _already_ a holiday to me -”

“ _I don_ _’t need to hear this shit_ , Phil -”

“And -” Coulson’s deadpan expression cracks for a second. “I would rather not have every fucking be recorded on my profile _but_ if you _insist_ , I suppose Clint and I can … _come_ to an agreement over it.”

Sometimes, Nick really has a way of saying a multitude of _things_ simply by staring at him with that intense, brown eye and far too straightened lips.

“Parental leave approved, you over-sharing _dumbass_ ,” Nick says as Coulson’s second bout of chuckling wanes, that brown eye twinkling. “Now get the fuck outta my office and go do whatever _sentimental shit_ it is that you do with your mate that _isn_ _’t_ fucking. And I better not see your _face_ around on the bridge until your leave is up!"

“Unless it’s you calling me back to the front lines, right?”

“See, Cheese, this is why you are my right hand man.”

“Of course, boss. Until then.”

Coulson is still smiling to himself as he heads up to the Helicarrier’s runways where Clint is waiting for him. Clint’s parental leave is already approved, and once they board the quinjet that will take them back to New York City, they will truly be on a vacation. A vacation that will last for _months_. It’s the first time since they’ve _known_ each other that they will be spending so much time together outside of work, with none of its obligations to disturb them, that also isn’t sick leave where they’re hurting and recovering from trauma.

They’ll either strangle each other by the end of the first week, or they’ll become even _closer_ than they’ve ever been.

He’s going to put his money on the third option: They’ll probably strangle each other by the end of the first week _and_ become even closer than they’ve ever been.

Oh yes, he can’t _wait_.

When Coulson scans the runways for Clint, he sees Clint already standing near a quinjet, attired in a sleeveless, black tactical suit that exhibits those _ravishing_ , strapping arms. Clint is well aware of the effect his bared arms have on people around him, and it’s no coincidence that he chose a snug tactical suit either, one that flagrantly flaunts his curved belly.

Omegas are rare in this world. Male Omegas are even rarer. _Pregnant_ male Omegas are the rarest of all, venerated by some cultures and societies in Europe, Middle America and Asia throughout the ages for their scarcity and fertility. In recent decades, scientists worldwide have devoted more time and research on male Omegan biology, and the more they’ve learned about the intensive metamorphosis a male Omega must experience in pregnancy and birth, the more respected male Omegas have become. About damn time, really, considering how much discrimination and oppression they’ve had to endure throughout history in places that do _not_ venerate them.

Clint had concealed his Omega status from SHIELD for that very reason, despite SHIELD’s strict regulations against such discrimination. Clint had feared being reduced to - again, as Clint put it - a ‘glory hole on two legs’ or a ‘baby popper’ in the eyes of other agents, losing their respect, losing his sense of self.

 _But that was before I met you, babe_ , Clint had said to him on the night after the Hunt, before they christened his bed from his to theirs. _That was before I realized that maybe I_ can _get what I wish for, after all_.

And now, Clint is open about his Omega status _and_ his pregnancy, and he is treated with even _more_ deference by his peers. As it should be.

(Clint had to bust the ass of a young, arrogant Alpha agent a head taller and even wider who foolishly grabbed Clint’s arm even after Clint told him to back off, with a single punch to the face in front of a crowd in the Helicarrier’s main gym. Neither Coulson or Clint had told anyone apart from Dr. Chiew about the pregnancy at the time, but Clint had already begun wearing snug tactical suits since he can’t fit into his Hawkeye outfit anymore, and agents would have to be blind to not notice the bulging of Clint’s once flat belly. Clint had made his point very clearly about his maintained _badassadery_ with that punch.)

Clint hones that hawk-sharp gaze on him as he approaches Clint. He locks eyes with his Omega mate as he loosens the embroidered, purple tie around his neck. He sees Clint’s lips bow up and part into an exuberant smile as he tugs the tie over his head and balls it up in one hand, as he walks faster and smiles in return. He and Clint embrace each other at the same time, Clint’s arms wrapping around his shoulders and his arms winding around Clint’s midriff, their lips seeking each other and crashing together in an unbridled, open-mouthed kiss.

They may still be on the Helicarrier but fuck it, he isn’t wearing his tie anymore. He’s not Agent Phil Coulson of SHIELD. He’s just an Alpha dad-to-be who’s officially on holiday from work and he’s kissing his beloved mate and the bearer of his baby, the most gorgeous Omega in the whole fucking _universe_ and nobody can ever convince him otherwise.

“When we get home,” Clint rasps into his devoured lips, holding the sides of his head with both hands, “you are gonna fuck my brains out on every available surface. Capisce?”

“Yes. Yes,” he says, kissing Clint again, before they board the quinjet hand in hand.

In spite of the fact that Coulson does what Clint had appointed of him - on the couch, on the kitchen counter next to the sink, on the dining table, then in bed, may whatever gods there be _bless_ Clint’s heightened libido - Clint’s slumber afterward is not an untroubled one. Clint is suffering another nightmare, rare as they are becoming. As Coulson blinks himself more awake and shifts onto his elbows on their bed, he sees Clint begin to curl up into a ball, to shiver and whine under his breath.

Most times, Clint lies taut on his back with his fingers clutching at the sheets during a nightmare, rigid with fear and panic. Once in a long while, however, Clint dreams of the assault that set off the chain of events that would lead to Clint nearly dying in a vast, dusty cave almost a hundred miles away from New York City. Clint dreams of ripping out Buck Chisholm’s throat with his fangs, of ripping away Jacques Duquesne’s face with his claws. Clint dreams of curling up into a blood-splattered, human ball against a seedy motel room’s wall with defense wounds on his arms and tears rolling down his crimson-slathered face, frozen in that moment in time, trapped there no matter how far he’s run, how much he’s grown.

Coulson carefully and unhurriedly eases Clint out of the stressful, inflexible pose without waking Clint up. He strokes the lengths of Clint’s arms until they unbend and go limp. He strokes Clint’s round belly and sturdy thighs, persuading Clint’s legs to also unbend and lower with constant, circular rubbing and hushed words of encouragement. He wriggles closer to Clint once Clint is somewhat stretched out on his side again.

“Clint,” he murmurs, stroking away the creases of his mate’s brow with the back of his fingers. “You’re home. You’re safe. They’re both dead. They’ll never hurt you again. I promise.”

Clint’s face slackens from its overwrought frown into something neutral, something placid. Clint breathes deep and steady. Clint sleeps on.

“Yeah. It’s just you and me here, sweetheart.”

He hears Clint make a tiny sound, something almost like affirmation. He presses his hand upon Clint’s belly again. Swallows past the lump in his throat even as his lips quirk up.

“It’s just you and me,” he whispers. “You and me, and baby.”

 

<<< >>>

 

Clint is alone in the apartment, playing chess on a transparent projected screen with the game’s artificial intelligence in the living room, when he feels the baby move for the first time. He doesn’t realize it for what it is at first, assuming it’s just his stomach rumbling. His mind is partially on the game while the rest of it is on Phil, who’s had to go back to the Helicarrier despite officially being on parental leave until the baby’s born.

 _I_ _’m sorry, Nick says he definitely needs me for this_ , Phil had said to him before racing out the door. _I_ _’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise. I’m sorry_.

 _It_ _’s okay, babe_ , he’d said back, holding his mate’s noble, adored face with both hands to kiss him, then again, then another time. _I can still kill a guy in twenty-six different ways, ya know. I can take care of myself. I_ _’ll be fine_.

It’s true, and he knows that Phil knows it. But it doesn’t mean he hadn’t already begun to miss Phil the moment he and his Alpha mate were no longer touching each other. He doesn’t ache any less knowing Phil is just a call away, that their apartment is safeguarded by the most advanced security SHIELD has to offer that will put Phil’s mind at ease (for some time at least) while Phil is away. He knows that Phil will be thinking about him like he is about Phil, both wishing to be together again in their den, their sanctuary from the rest of the world.

And when the baby moves again, when Clint realizes what the sensation of butterflies fluttering inside and across his lower belly really is, Clint has never wished so badly for Phil to be here with him.

“Baby?” he says faintly, going motionless on the couch, his eyes widening as he glances down at his belly.

He slides his hands under his purple sweatshirt and presses them both on his belly. At a little over four months, its swell is palpable though still easily concealed by a loose top. There are days when he _forgets_ that he’s pregnant, remembering only when Phil reminds him to take his vitamins D and C, his iodine and iron supplements. He still has his _six-pack abs_ , for eff’s sakes, stretched as they are.

Ten minutes pass in nervous silence while Clint remains on the couch with his hands pressed to his belly, nibbling on his lower lip.

Then, just when he thinks the baby’s fallen asleep (because Phil said that’s what babies do a lot even in the womb), he feels a stronger sensation rolling through his belly, like a curious nudge under his navel. There’s no mistaking it for independent movement within his body, the movement of a _living being_ in him.

He gasps, his breath snagging in his throat.

Oh man. _Oh man_ , there’s … a _baby_ inside him. There’s a _human being_ in him who’s half of him and half of Phil, _growing_ inside him right now, a little human being who’ll depend on him and Phil for years, _decades_ to come to survive in this enormous, senseless, screwed up world. A little human being who’ll call him Daddy and call Phil Papa, who’ll look like the two of them and _smile_ at them and run into their arms when they call, who’ll mean more than the entire _universe_ to them, no matter what and when.

Oh man, his _soul_ is going to walk outside his body in mere months, for the _rest of his life_.

And he can’t wait. He can’t wait.

“Hi, baby,” he whispers after lying on his side on the couch, curled up with his shoulders hunched and his legs bent up over his belly, arms still tucked under his sweatshirt. “Hey.”

He blinks his eyes numerous times to clear them. He rubs his lower belly with both hands and for a while, his breaths are slow and deliberate and hoarse, the left side of his chest thrumming with what he can only describe as a lark’s song at dawn, a song of hopes and dreams coming true.

He falls asleep with his hands still on his belly. He dreams of open, pellucid skies and prodigious gales beneath his spread wings, soaring high above vast, dusty caves that can never touch him again, never taste his blood again.

Hours later, Clint awakens to familiar fingers gingerly carding through his hair.

Phil’s back and kneeling next to the couch, his black suit jacket unbuttoned and his tie missing. The sun is pale in comparison to the tender expression on his face.

“Phil,” Clint murmurs, blinking up at Phil, purring as his mate continues to caress his scalp.

“Hello,” Phil murmurs back.

Clint blinks harder, then says, “Phil. I felt the baby move.”

It’s Phil who blinks now. Phil, whose whole _face_ begins to smile as the words sink in and oh, the sun is _nothing_ in comparison to the expression on Phil’s face now.

Clint lifts up his sweatshirt for Phil to rest a hand on his belly. He places his hand on Phil’s, tangles their fingers. He shifts their hands to where he’d last felt the baby move, low and under his navel.

“Here?”

“Yeah. It was like, I dunno, like lotsa bubbles popping. Then I felt this _poke_ from inside.”

Hushed minutes pass, but there is no movement beneath their hands. Clint is pretty certain the baby’s asleep now, and he tells Phil so, hoping his mate won’t be too disappointed.

“It’s fine. I can feel the baby move later.”

“Yeah. We got time.”

Phil smiles at him again, that closed-lipped, sun-smashing smile that glows from Phil’s crinkled eyes, and slowly, indubitably, he smiles in return. He smiles and squeezes Phil’s fingers over the mound that houses their growing, cherished baby and then he laughs, softly and bodily, because he’s here to do so, even after everything that’s happened to him. Because he can.

 

<<< >>>

 

As the months pass, the transformations to Clint’s body become more visible, and Coulson isn’t just talking about the rounding belly that’s getting bigger and bigger with their baby inside. Just a week after they take those home pregnancy tests and then officially confirm the pregnancy with Dr. Chiew in her office on board the Helicarrier, Clint sheds most of his body hair over a period of twelve days.

It’s the very first thing Dr. Chiew had mentioned will happen to Clint, that his fluctuating hormone levels will cause it (among other things), and so Coulson doesn’t sprint _that_ swiftly to the bathroom where Clint is taking a shower, even after hearing Clint’s muffled holler of shock. He swings open the door to see Clint slathered in suds in the shower, gaping at the clumps of short, fine blond hair on his palms that were once happy to stay where they were on his forearms and chest. The cascading water from the shower head soon washes them off Clint’s hands and into the shower drain.

“Holy shit,” Clint says, running his hands over his now totally smooth chest and arms, his lower jaw sagging. “The hair just _came off_! Just like that!”

Coulson opens the shower door, heedless of the water sprinkling him and dampening his white t-shirt. Clint hasn’t had to shave his face for the past three days, which also helped clue Coulson in about Clint losing other body hair soon. As the water sluices off the soap suds from Clint’s body, he sees for himself just how much body hair Clint’s shed today.

“I think your treasure trail is gone. You still have some pubic hair,” he says with as straight a face as he can, abruptly finding the situation more than a little hilarious. “And you still got your hairy legs. For now.”

Clint glowers at him from under drenched bangs (and eyebrows still there, thank god), eyes narrowed and lips puckered.

“Are you _laughing_ at my _hair loss_?” Clint growls, but now there’s also a twitch to Clint’s lips, one that makes Coulson’s own lips do the same. Yeah, he has firsthand experience with hair loss. The _permanent_ kind. But Clint’s never found his thin hair unattractive. If anything, Clint finds it _extra_ attractive. Something about his ‘Alpha-ness being so Alpha that even his hair can’t handle his uber masculine hotness’. Which is more than a little hilarious too.

“How does it feel?” Coulson asks instead. He blatantly lets his eyes rove the length of Clint’s attractive, still brawny body from soaked head down to shapely toes that curl on beige-and-brown mosaic floor tiles. His gaze lingers on the budding swell of Clint’s belly at three months of pregnancy. He can still see the ripples of Clint’s abdominal muscles stretching over it.

Clint’s glower instantly fades away as he resumes stroking his chest and arms under the continuous outpouring of water from the shower head. Coulson’s own toes curl as Clint skims one hand over and down the swell of his belly too. Damn, he really _is_ developing some kind of _kink_ for Clint’s pregnant belly, if all it takes for him to start to harden is the sight of Clint _touching_ it.

“It’s … it’s kinda … nice,” Clint mumbles and ah, Clint is smiling at him, that mischievous, _knowing_ smile. “Wanna _feel_?”

Slowly, purposefully, Clint slides both hands from the top to bottom of his belly, framing it with wide-spread fingers.

Clint’s amused laughter peals in the misty, heated expanse of their bathroom as Coulson strips in record time (courtesy of his Ranger days) and hops into the shower with him. Clint is still laughing as he maneuvers Clint against the shower’s tiled wall and kisses and nips at Clint’s lips, cheeks and lower jaw. But when he turns Clint around, when he molds himself to Clint from shoulders to thighs, grinds his erection between Clint’s ample buttocks while cupping Clint’s belly with both hands, Clint makes a wholly different, strident sort of sound that goes straight to his rock-hard cock and makes them both quiver with lust. He fucks Clint with his hands on Clint’s belly the whole time, rubbing it while Clint moans against the wall and comes and _clenches_ around his spurting, knotted cock.

Okay, maybe _everything_ about Clint is becoming a kink to him. (And naturally, when he blurts this out, Clint chortles about it and smirks like a smug brat and yes, he still loves the little shit anyway.)

After those twelve days, Clint’s face is, as Clint himself describes it, baby-butt smooth. It also becomes more rounded, more youthful and _softer_. Clint’s skin _everywhere_ smoothens and glows with health. Clint’s golden hair on his head thickens and turns lustrous and lush, and Coulson is _addicted_ to running his fingers through it, messing it up every chance he gets when Clint gels it up into stiff spikes. He likes it without gel now, likes being able to smell Clint’s _scrumptious_ scent whenever he buries his nose in it.

(Clint gets the hint after the fifth time he ruffles Clint’s gelled hair into unsalvageable disarray. This being Clint of course, Clint still uses _some_ gel to style it, but he can’t fault his mate for wanting to appear decent, not when he styles his own hair daily.)

If he can’t sniff Clint’s scent from his hair, he resorts to sniffing Clint’s cheeks or neck or even chest (that has so far remained flat and firm). It cracks Clint up every time he does so, with Clint claiming it’s his beard stubble 0r his gusty exhalations tickling him. It also cracks Clint up every time Clint catches him _staring_ at Clint, especially when it’s with his lips parted and his eyes glazed over like a hormone-addled Alpha _dolt_ (that he is, yes, he won’t deny it) but he can’t help it, he really can’t.

His beloved Omega mate is just so … _beautiful_. Like … a celestial _angel_ descended from the highest tier of heaven, golden and beaming and just … beautiful.

“You are so _ridiculous_ ,” Clint gasps after catching him staring with starry eyes for the umpteenth time while in their bedroom, covering his eyes even as he smiles and laughs boisterously. “A ‘ _celestial angel_ ’? Seriously?”

Oh. Did he say that aloud?

Clint is still laughing as he goes up to Clint and grasps Clint’s head with both hands. He sniffs Clint’s cheeks and kisses Clint’s yummy lips. He caresses Clint’s muscular, hairless arms from wrists to shoulders. He caresses the sides of Clint’s baby-butt smooth face (and he has to agree, it _is_ that smooth) and runs his fingers through Clint’s opulent, non-gelled hair and Clint doesn’t protest at all, not one bit.

“You keep this up and you are gonna _spoil_ a guy.”

In the wake of his mirth, Clint’s voice is low and sultry. Clint gazes at him with heavy-lidded eyes teeming with fondness. He kisses Clint once more, long and lightly, then draws Clint into a hug with his Omega mate’s head upon his shoulder.

“I would give you the world, if you only asked,” he whispers into Clint’s ear.

And Clint, who could have so easily snarked at him for that, raises his head to whisper into his ear, “I don’t need to ask, babe. I already have it.”

And all over again, Coulson falls in love with Clint.

To his elation, Clint regularly falls in love all over again with him as well, although there are _certain_ times when he has to remind Clint about that so Clint doesn’t stuff an arrow up his ass. Like right now, weeks later in Dr. Chiew’s office, as Dr. Chiew informs them of the many other physiological changes Clint’s body will undergo in the months ahead such as seesawing emotions, swollen ankles and feet, increased urination, stretch marks and peculiar cravings.

Oh, and because Clint is a male Omega, he will experience shrinking, retracting genitals too. (Yes, Coulson _does_ cringe inwardly.)

“What,” Clint says, staring at Dr. Chiew with very wide eyes.

“Yes,” Dr. Chiew says from behind her desk, her mien the epitome of imperturbable professionalism. “Your testicles will gradually retract into your body. And your penis will also shrink.”

“Retract? _Shrink_?” Clint squeaks, staring at Dr. Chiew with very, _very_ wide eyes.

“It’s _temporary_ , I assure you. It’s an integral stage in your body’s preparation for a natural birth. After you’ve given birth, your testicles will come down again and your penis will -” Dr. Chiew pauses for just the _slightest_ instant. “Grow back relatively to its former length.”

“ _Relatively_?” Clint squeaks even higher.

“Relatively. Based on former recorded cases of male Omegan pregnancies, it’s more common that the penis will grow back to a _somewhat_ shorter length. _But_ , there really is no way of determining this for you. It’s on a case-by-case basis.”

Clint stares at Dr. Chiew for a very long minute, his lips pressed together, his blue eyes so wide that the whites are visible around the irises. Coulson, in an armchair next to Clint in front of the doctor’s desk, sits very, very calmly and silently and wonders when exactly Clint is going to stick that arrow up his ass today. Probably the moment they walk out of the office.

“My balls are gonna _vanish_ and my dick is gonna _shrink_.” Clint slowly turns his head to stare at Coulson instead with those wide, horrified eyes. “I was not told about this, Phillip. _I was not told about this_ -”

“There _have_ been cases where a male Omega’s genitals grew back _significantly_ larger and longer than before.”

Clint slowly turns his head back to stare at Dr. Chiew, his eyes still wide, his lips pursed once more. A few seconds pass. Then a few more. Then, Clint opens his mouth to speak, only for Dr. Chiew to add, “ _But_ like I said, that’s the exception, not the norm. Out of several thousand cases, only five were the exception.”

Clint shuts his mouth. He sits back in his armchair and stares into space with glassy eyes, the tips of his lips quirked up in a parody of a smile.

“Everything’s fine,” Clint says to himself very, very casually.

Coulson is _pretty_ sure now is not a good time to smile even with affection, much less make any noise resembling laughter. He wants to tell Clint that he doesn’t care what size his genitals will be in the future, that he’d love Clint even if Clint’s cock and balls disappeared permanently … but he is also a wise, cautious man, and he very much prefers his head to be lacking arrows.

“Wait,” Clint says seconds later, his eyes opening so very wide again. “Am I gonna grow _boobs_?!”

Dr. Chiew is impressively still the epitome of imperturbable professionalism. (Coulson will be leaving a positive review on her SHIELD profile, yes.)

“Short answer: No. Long answer: Most pregnant male Omegas present with noticeable breasts by the second month of pregnancy. It’s actually a rather reliable indicator of pregnancy for a male Omega. That is, unless you’re in the minority that _doesn_ _’t_ develop breasts at all. It’s a genetic thing. Since you’re already four months pregnant and still have your pecs, it’s safe to say you won’t develop any breasts. You’ll have to bottle feed.”

Clint glances down at said pecs under his black, sleeveless tactical suit, then raises his head again with a contemplative expression.

“Huh. I … dunno whether to be relieved. Or disappointed.” Clint glances down again at his chest and cups and _squeezes_ his pectorals with gloved hands. “I mean, I could have had my own set of awesome boobs to play with! Like, my own fatty Ben Wa balls! How cool would _that_ have been!”

Dr. Chiew’s mien fractures at last with a stifled, amused smile when Coulson stares deadpan at her, an expression that declares, _yes, this is my mate. This is the man I have chosen to be bonded to for the rest of my life_.

Clint’s mood lightens even more during the ultrasound that has Dr. Chiew rubbing a transducer across Clint’s exposed and gelled belly while Clint reclines on a tilted bed. Although this is Clint’s third ultrasound, Coulson is still as fascinated as Clint by the achromatic, erratic images forming on the video screen of their baby in Clint’s womb as seen from various views and angles. Dr. Chiew freeze-frames a clear shot, then measures the baby from crown to rump. Then she examines the baby’s internal structures, including the brain, heart, spine and stomach, and also the placenta and umbilical cord. Everything checks out, to his and Clint’s tremendous relief.

“I think baby’s going to be a big one,” Dr. Chiew says with a smile. “Do you want to know the baby’s sex?”

Clint makes his position on that clear by putting his hands over his ears and singsongs, “La la la _la_.”

Coulson quirks his lips and says, “We prefer to find out only at the birth.”

Today’s appointment concludes with Dr. Chiew renewing Clint’s prescription of antenatal vitamins as well as a five-month prescription of ‘do not fucking jump off fifty-story buildings.’ (Coulson thinks that maybe he’s a little in love with her.)

“That was just _one time_!” Clint predictably grouses after hearing the good doctor’s deadpan delivery. He turns to Coulson and says, “Tell her it was only one time.”

“Three, actually,” Coulson’s traitorous mouth replies.

Clint glowers at him, then says with twinkling eyes, “Phil? Babe? This is the part where you say, ‘ _Yes, honey_ ,’ and, ‘ _Of course, honey_.’ We gotta practice this shit again.”

“Yes, honey.”

Clint nods in exaggerated approval, and there’s Dr. Chiew with that stifled, amused smile again as she hands over the prescription slip to Coulson and tells them to scram. (Coulson thinks that maybe she’s more acquainted with Nick than he knows, the way they both enjoy kicking him out of their offices.)

As they stroll down the corridor side by side, Clint’s little, impromptu game lasts until he realizes that Coulson will only say those two lines, no matter what flies off Clint’s tongue. Coulson _thinks_ that he’s gained the upper hand over his rascally mate but no, Clint just _has_ to go and say, “I’m a fat, ugly blimp with swollen feet and a flat pug face.”

Coulson opens his mouth. Closes it.

Clint gives him a pointed look with one raised eyebrow.

“I win,” the little _brat_ says pompously when he refuses to say anything, and he stares at Clint with narrowed eyes, saying something else entirely with them.

As expected, Clint cracks up, his playful snicker echoing in the corridor. Clint leans forward to kiss him on the lips. Clint walks ahead first after that, and Coulson stands where he is and smiles to himself for several moments.

No, he thinks before walking again and catching up with his mate who grins at him, _no_ , he’s pretty sure that _he_ _’s_ the one who’s won big time in this game of life. He has Clint and their baby to prove it.

 

<<< >>>

 

Sometimes, the appointments with Dr. Chiew are much more somber. Dr. Chiew tells them in her no-nonsense manner about stillbirth, about the risks now that Clint is headed into the sixth month of pregnancy. Clint grips Coulson’s hand under the desk, his face pale and impassive. Coulson squeezes his mate’s hand back.

“From now on, bi-monthly appointments until the birth. Maybe more,” Dr. Chiew says, her forearms resting on her desk and her fingers steepled. “No skimping.”

Coulson and Clint concur with the doctor.

Dr. Chiew also tells them about the more painful aspects of the transformation of Clint’s body, such as his hips widening increasingly in the upcoming months. Male Omegas have it worse than female Omegas (and every other gender) due to the male Omegan skeletal structure that includes a narrower pelvis but a pelvic brim notably wider than that of males who aren’t Omegas.

“You’re going to get lower backaches often as the baby turns and the head aligns inside the pelvis, especially in the final month as the ligaments of the sacroiliac joint loosens. The joints of your bones are going to soften due to your pregnancy hormones, which means your joints are going to hurt too. The pain will be at its worst during labor, if you intend to give birth naturally.”

“Okay,” Clint says, unperturbed.

“And speaking of natural birth, you’ve very likely noticed the physical changes to your genitalia as well as the perineal area.”

Clint flushes tomato red at that and glances away from Dr. Chiew. Coulson strokes Clint’s fingers once under the desk, his own lips twitching up when he sees Clint’s lips do that too. To say that both of them have _noticed_ the changes is a _bit_ of an understatement. He certainly remembers how _sensitive_ those changes are to his touch. And his _tongue_.

“Uhm, yeah,” Clint mutters, scratching the side of his neck, turning even redder. “I gotta admit, I didn’t expect the … folds.”

“They’re called vir labia. Not all male Omegas develop them during pregnancy but if they do, it’s usually in the fifth month, around your perineal area. They’ll disappear about a month or two after birth. Are you having any issues with them? Any pain or bleeding?”

“No. No, not at all, Doc. None.”

Coulson’s lips twitch even more when Clint shoots him a heated glance. Ah, it seems they’ll get to _enjoy_ these changes until Clint gives birth. An acceptable trade-off for the discomfort Clint must suffer.

Dr. Chiew smiles at them both, an affable smile that takes years off her round face and elicits a similar smile from Clint.

“Good!” Dr. Chiew claps her hands once, then says,” So. Now for the the Big Question: Natural or Cesarean?”

Clint’s answer is resolute and immediate.

"Natural. No drugs."

Coulson and Dr. Chiew share a split-second look that Coulson is certain Clint _doesn_ _’t_ miss. Coulson has read enough medical literature on male Omega childbirth by now to know that Clint’s choice is the most precarious of all, especially for the male Omega. It’s _Clint_ _’s choice_ , however, and he respects that. It isn ’t him carrying a baby to term for months while undergoing numerous, taxing physical changes. It isn’t going to be him pushing out a baby after hours of agony without any painkillers. (It isn’t him who was drugged by Alpha bastards intent on raping him. It isn’t him who was _disemboweled_ by one of those Alpha bastards.)

“Okay. But just to let you know, you can always opt for an epidural at any time during labor.” Dr. Chiew pauses, then says, “A Cesarean section _is_ the much more common choice of delivery by male Omegas. It’s stressful in its own ways, but you won’t feel any pain, the delivery of the baby is much quicker and it greatly reduces the chances of other complications arising.”

Clint shakes his head, his visage set in a determined frown.

"I want a natural birth. No drugs." Coulson can now see that Clint is gritting his teeth hard, that his fangs are showing. "I don't want a knife near my belly. _I don't want a knife near my baby_."

"Okay, Clint. Okay,” Dr. Chiew replies benevolently, calm even in the face of Clint’s abrupt anger.

Clint’s hand is now squeezing Coulson’s in an aching vise. Coulson rubs his thumb across tense tendons and rigid bone. He pumps out calming Alpha pheromones for Clint’s sake (and since Dr. Chiew is a Beta, she isn’t affected by them). Clint looks at him and then, just as abruptly, Clint’s anger and fangs recede, leaving Clint with an apologetic expression and lowered eyes.

“Sorry, Doc,” Clint murmurs, scratching the side of his neck again. “Stupid hormones.”

“Nothing to apologize about, Clint,” Dr. Chiew says, smiling again, sincerely. “Still, due to the past trauma to your reproductive system, complications _may_ arise that require an emergency C-section. Do we have your permission to perform one if it’s needed?"

Clint glances at Dr. Chiew, then away. Clint then glances at Coulson, and he sees a flash of emotion in Clint’s eyes that seems to be … guilt? For what?

Clint glances at Dr. Chiew again and says, "Yes. To save the baby, yes."

Coulson gazes at Clint’s profile. Clint doesn’t look back at him. Clint has lowered his eyes once more and is staring at the burnished surface of Dr. Chiew’s desk, reticent.

Still, Clint’s fingers curl around his when he tightens his grip on them.

"Phil?” Dr. Chiew asks. “Do you have anything to say or add?"

Coulson gazes on at his mate’s face, outwardly stoic. Inwardly, he’s … he is _not_ pleased that Clint is willing to _die_ to give birth to their baby naturally. He _gets_ why Clint doesn’t want a C-section, he really does. Clint doesn’t need his PTSD compounded on top of strain of the birth itself. But Coulson doesn’t want his beloved mate to die. He’s already gone through that once, a fucking helpless and _useless_ thing who could only stand aside while Clint was defibrillated in his room in the med bay, Clint’s infection-weakened heart going dormant for seventeen seconds (that lasted eons, _eons_ ).

If it comes to choosing between Clint and the baby, he already knows what his choice will be.

“If something goes wrong,” Coulson says, gazing at Clint who finally looks back at him with such wide, _open_ eyes, “do everything in your power to save Clint and the baby. But if you have to choose between them, do everything in your power to save Clint. _Everything_.”

Clint says nothing. Coulson sees the long line of Clint’s throat shift in a hard swallow as Clint lowers his eyes yet again.

Clint’s fingers remain entwined with his, warm and strong and _real_.

After signing the mandatory patient contract, he and Clint leave Dr. Chiew’s office in a silence that vibrates with a tension that hasn’t manifested between them for many years, like a bowstring on the verge of snapping in two. Coulson isn’t angry, no, not at all, and he can tell that Clint isn’t either from Clint’s sweet and fresh scent. This tension had incarnated itself only a handful of times, always with Clint being _afraid_ that he’s screwed up somehow, that he’s done something that Coulson can’t abide and will shove Coulson _away_.

They walk down the empty corridor side by side with a forearm’s breadth of space between them. Looking ahead, Coulson stretches out his right hand across that space for Clint’s left hand. There is a moment’s hesitation, _just_ a moment, before Clint clutches his hand and tucks himself against Coulson’s side. Coulson releases Clint’s hand then, but only so he can wrap an arm around Clint’s waist to draw Clint even closer, so Clint can tuck himself even tighter against him and find shelter in him. (Always, always.)

“It’s funny, ya know? I’ve jumped off planes in the middle of the night into raging war zones in just my Hawkeye outfit and bow and arrows. I’ve fought mercenaries armed with machine guns and RPGs with a _knife_ and _won_. I’ve had showdowns with assassins and warrior monks and _ninjas_ trained by the most dangerous terrorist organizations in the world,” Clint murmurs as they walk on, their heads leaning together. “I fought the psychopathic sonofabitch who tried to kill me _twice_ and I _survived_. But this? Having a _baby_?” Clint huffs out a tremulous laugh. “ _This_ is the scariest thing I’ve ever done in my life, Phil. How _funny_ is that, huh?”

Coulson halts in his steps when Clint does so. He stands still and silent and _fond_ as Clint turns to face him, rotund belly bumping him, glancing down at the vicinity of his clavicles before looking him in the eye.

“When the Doc asked me about the C-section, you … you know I didn’t mean that I _wanted_ to die. Right?”

Coulson reaches up and gently tweaks the rim of Clint’s ear, then cards his fingers through the lush, golden hair above it.

“I know, sweetheart. I know what you meant. But I stand by what I said as well. If something really does go wrong, we can … try again. We can try _again_. But, Clint?” He traces the hinge of Clint’s smooth lower jaw with his fingertips. He purses his lips, his chest suddenly throbbing, a heat simmering behind his eyes. “There’s only one of you. And I would really, _really_ rather not lose you again. If I have to choose between you and the baby, it will _always_ be you. If that makes me a monster, so be it.”

Coulson waits with breath frozen in his lungs for Clint to lash out, to rend his person-suit asunder so the monster in him will have nowhere to hide anymore. He returns Clint’s unblinking, unguarded gaze. He’s prepared for Clint’s judgment, for Clint to see the wriggling, undead worms and restless demons beneath his skin at last and say, _you_ _’re no different from them, not at all_.

But of course, of course his Omega mate remains full of surprises, for Clint rests a hand upon the left side of his chest and says instead, “I’ve met a lotta monsters in my time, babe. But you? You can never be one, because you’ve got this heart right here that’s so big you gotta seal it behind layer upon layer of armor so it doesn’t get hurt.”

And because Coulson is unable to speak then, he draws Clint close to him once more. He kisses Clint on the cheek and feels it bunch up as Clint smiles. Then as one, with their arms around each other, they resume their journey back home, the fleeting tension between them once again a hazy, trivial thing of the past.

 

<<< >>>

 

Phil is sound asleep on his right side on the bed, his head on Clint’s swollen belly, his chest rising and falling with deep, languorous breaths. Two pillows propping up his head and shoulders, a reclined Clint caresses the arcs and sweeps of his Alpha mate’s dark, thin hair with the pads of his fingers.

The expression on Phil’s face is tranquility embodied, like the sun ascending above the horizon, gracing the world with warmth and reverie and light. Clint is grateful, very grateful to be alive to see it. To be able to touch Phil like this, to plot out the ridges and channels of his beloved mate’s handsome face, to brush a finger across Phil’s pliant, dry lips, to feel the glimmer of Phil’s eyelashes when he taps them.

He should have died over twenty years ago, he thinks, in a grimy motel in the city he was born in. He should have died even earlier than that, he thinks, when his old man was still alive and would beat Ma and Barney and him in his drunken fits, bellowing about killing them all for making his life hell, for being his _burden_. He thinks it’s a damn miracle, sometimes, that he survived beyond babyhood at all.

But he _is_ grateful that he has. He is. He would never have met Phil, otherwise. He wouldn’t have become the valuable, _useful_ SHIELD specialist agent he is today. He wouldn’t be here, in this Brooklyn apartment, in this cozy bedroom with its deep purple-and-gold curtains and taupe carpet and sunny lamps, carrying in him the baby of the man who saved him from dying at the blade-versed hands of another.

Duquesne. The Swordsman, who once told him that he would become a rising star, a _comet_.

Once upon a time, Duquesne was just a man too. Duquesne was just a man with stark hazel eyes, angular cheekbones, aquiline nose and thin lips, a man who laughed at the dumbest jokes, drank shitty beer with the other carnies, could speak more than eight languages fluently and had dreams of becoming the most famous blade master in the world. Duquesne was a man who had _choices_ at his fingertips, like so many other people on this Earth.

And in the end, he made the wrong ones. The _worst_ ones. He chose to harm and rape and kill, and now he’s dead while Clint still lives.

Clint is still alive, because in the end, he made the _right_ ones.

“And you’re the best one,” he whispers to Phil still slumbering against his belly, his mate and husband who loves him so much and accepts all of him, scars and fucked up past and mistakes and all.

The baby must agree too, wriggling like they are now inside him. He laughs soundlessly to himself and lays a hand on his belly next to Phil’s crown.

“Okay, okay, settle down,” he murmurs, rubbing his belly over Phil’s (his, _their_ ) cable knit, light gray sweater. “I’ll tone down on the mushy thoughts, I get it.”

Phil decides to wake up then, snuffling and stretching a sinewy, toned body that still makes Clint’s mouth water, that makes something in his chest skip a beat. Clint gives him a tender smile that’s returned in kind, like the first rays of sunlight streaming in through a gap in the curtains. He breathes in their mingled scents of spring nectar, cleansed grass after the rain, chocolate-mint cake straight out of the oven on a cool afternoon and something else, like baked apple pie and evergreen leaves.

Clint feels the baby move again.

So does Phil.

Clint’s smile broadens as Phil’s eyes go round as saucers, as Phil peels away the sweater to press a stubbly face harder to his belly with a blooming smile of astonishment and delight. It’s the first time Phil is feeling the baby move. It’s another exquisite moment in time to be committed to memory, to heart.

“I think the baby just touched my face with a hand,” Phil says, in awe.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s … It’s _surreal_.”

Clint’s laugh this time is audible and low.

“Imagine what it feels like from _inside_.”

Phil’s eyes go round again as the baby wiggles some more, directly against his face.

“Hello, baby,” Phil murmurs, stroking the curved side of Clint’s belly, “hi,” and then as one, they laugh, softly and bodily, because they’re here to do so, even after everything that’s happened to them. Because they can.

 

<<< >>>

 

If there is anything that cuts Coulson to the quick worse than hearing Clint whimper his name during a nightmare, it’s seeing his mate cry, due particularly to how infrequent it occurs and how _exposed_ Clint must feel to break down like that.

“They’re gone. They’re fucking _gone_!”

Clint is sitting on the side of their bed in just a dark purple, long-sleeved, v-neck sweater that covers his burgeoning belly and groin. His black sweatpants are on the carpeted floor near his bare feet in a heap. Clint doesn’t even make the effort to hide his crying which, for Coulson, is as evident a sign as any of the level of Clint’s distress.

“Hey. Hey,” Coulson says, kneeling down in front of Clint and clasping Clint’s pressed-together thighs with both hands. “What do you mean?”

Clint runs his hands down his flushed, streaked face and sniffles noisily.

“My _balls_ , damnit. They’re gone!”

Coulson’s benign expression doesn’t change one bit. He is, however, grimacing inwardly. _Ah_. Well, Dr. Chiew _did_ warn them about this (and about Clint’s severe mood swings). It’s an inevitable stage in the gradual transformation of Clint’s body in preparation for the birth. Still, he can’t blame Clint for being so upset about it. What guy _wouldn_ _’t_ be upset to wake up one day and find his testicles missing?

“Clint, it’s only temporary -”

“My _balls_ are _gone_ , Phil!” Clint gestures wildly at his covered groin, his eyes glistening and rimmed red. “And there’s - there’s something _weird_ going on lower down too! Like, _bits_ that weren’t there before! It’s freaking me out!”

Coulson risks a small, consoling smile. He caresses the sides of Clint’s tense thighs as Clint wipes at his face again with the back of his hands, humbled by the fact that Clint permits him to see him like this, all armor stripped away, all defenses down and out for the count. Clint has no idea how _brave_ he is, to bring their baby to full term despite all the perils and hardships that come with being a pregnant male Omega.

And yes, if the medical literature on male Omega pregnancies he’s read are authentic, he knows precisely what Clint is talking about. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about.

“Sorry,” Clint mumbles, sniffling again, his head bowed.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Coulson says as he wipes away a tear under Clint’s left eye with a thumb.

“It’s just …” Clint flails his hands about in illustration of his feelings. “I feel so outta _control_. I feel like my body isn’t _mine_ anymore. I _know_ the Doc told us about all this but … it doesn’t mean I like it.” Clint grasps Coulson’s upper arms, as if to anchor himself. “And I _want_ this baby. Our baby. I want it so badly. I shouldn’t feel bad about the rest, right?”

“Just because you want the baby doesn’t mean you can’t be upset about the aspects of pregnancy that change your body in ways you don’t agree with. Okay?”

A lengthy minute ticks by before Clint nods jerkily, his eyes still lowered and damp.

“Is it okay if I take a look? Or do you want me to leave you alone?”

Clint seizes one of his hands, and he lets Clint pull him closer. He envelops Clint in a hug and rubs Clint’s back with both hands, purring deep in his chest and emitting reassuring Alpha pheromones, feeling Clint nuzzle the crook between his neck and shoulder. He smells Clint’s Omegan pheromones pumped out in return, creating a cycle of scent-centric alleviation.

“Ya know what’s wrong with me?” Clint asks, muffled.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, sweetheart. This new, well, development is a natural part of the transformation too.”

“It is?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Clint sits up, calmer and no longer beset by sobs. He wipes his face one last time with the long sleeve of his sweater. “Okay, you can look.”

Coulson stays on his knees as Clint slides up the bed and leans back on his hands, drawing his legs up onto the bed. Coulson receives an unobstructed view of Clint’s genital and perineal areas after Clint spreads his thighs and … yes, just like Dr. Chiew forewarned them, Clint’s testicles have fully retracted, a smooth, slight, hairless bump (due to Clint shedding his body hair months ago) in their place. Coulson likens it to the mons of a female human, the fatty mound of tissue of the vulva’s anterior portion. But Clint being a male Omega, there’s the penis above it, decidedly shorter and smaller than it was before (although last he checked, Clint can urinate and ejaculate just fine from it). There’s the likelihood it will shrink even more by the time the birth takes place, the male Omegan biology’s measure of keeping the male genitals out of the way and making as much room as possible for a natural birth.

And ah, just like the medical journals depicted, Clint has also developed vir labia folds.

“Does it look bad?”

Clint is averting his eyes and biting his lower lip. Coulson strokes the inside of Clint’s left thigh in a compassionate gesture, smiling benignly at Clint even though his mate isn’t looking at him. It hasn’t escaped his notice that Clint had refused to sleep naked next to him as well as let him into the bathroom whenever Clint was showering for the last two weeks. While Clint was fine with being held in bed, Clint had also refused to let his hands anywhere below his belly, twisting his lower body away from his under the covers.

Not once was he irritated by the behavior. He was far more concerned with Clint’s mental wellbeing. He understood Clint’s anxiety and need for space while processing the drastic changes to his body and their effects on his thoughts and emotions, and it seems Clint has reached the stage of no longer being able to ignore nor conceal said changes from him.

Coulson gazes at the vir labia folds between Clint’s legs, at their petal-like symmetry and rosiness, at the splendid, _arousing_ way the folds frame that luscious hole that spills out such fragrant, _delectable_ slick.

He licks his lips, already tasting that slick on them, upon his tongue. He gazes at Clint’s face until Clint’s eyes are dragged to his again.

“Honestly?” he rasps. “I think you look fucking _beautiful_. I want to _eat_ you.”

He can _see_ the instant Clint _believes_ him, see it in the loosening of Clint’s shoulders, in the smoothing out of Clint’s brow and the arch of Clint’s supple lips in a relieved, _sunny_ smile. He sees Clint nod. He hears Clint ’s breaths quicken as he extends his arm to _touch_ this new portion of his Omega mate’s alluring body.

He presses the back of his fingers upon the silken, smooth folds and caresses them firmly from bottom to top.

Clint shudders violently and gasps. Clint’s cock hardens in a heartbeat, springing up to smack against the curve of his pregnant belly. Clint’s hole _gushes_ thick, translucent slick that trickle down and over the vir labia, down to the beige sheets under Clint’s buttocks.

Oh. _Oh_ , now _that_ was a _fascinating_ reaction.

“Uhm. Can you - can you do that again?”

Clint has become flushed, breathless and raspy, his toes curled on the bed and his hands fisting the sheets. Clint has gone down on his elbows, unable to prop himself up on his hands anymore. Clint is _definitely_ turned on.

Coulson gives his Omega mate a fierce, lascivious smile, letting his fangs peek for a second or two.

“Oh, I’ll do _more_ than that,” he growls, and without waiting for Clint’s response, he dips down and swipes his tongue against the now engorged, blushing folds over and over, licking up and swallowing Clint’s slick with frenetic zeal. God, _god_ , Clint smells and tastes so damn _incredible_ , like a _high_ he can’t get enough of, can’t _live_ without. He can feel Clint’s thighs _shaking_ in his hands, feel Clint’s heels knocking on his upper back, Clint’s hands grappling at his head as Clint writhes. (Ah hah, Clint must be on his back now.) He can hear Clint crying out his name and a myriad of curses, begging him to not stop, don’t stop, _don_ _’t stop, babe, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come_ -

He closes his mouth around Clint’s cock just in time to swallow down Clint’s come, sucking on it until Clint whines and yanks at his hair and ears. Clint is still panting as he goes back down to Clint’s hole and oh yes, _oh_ yeah, he loves to make Clint groan just like that, he _loves_ to rim and tongue-fuck Clint like this, pushing his tongue into Clint as far as he can go (but no blowing, _no blowing air_ , air embolisms are _not_ good). He drives his tongue along the gorges between Clint’s vir labia folds, conquering every inch of quivering, delicate flesh, and oh, Clint’s moaning so _prettily_ and his body’s coiling, his long, lean legs jerking up reflexively and Clint is coming again, his slick hole squeezing around Coulson’s tongue, his wet folds fluttering against his cheeks.

Startlingly, _fantastically_ , Clint comes _again_ after Coulson pierces Clint with three fingers folded together and thrusts them in and out no more than seven times. He watches Clint convulse from the overwhelming pleasure, watches Clint claw at the sheets and throw his head back and open his mouth wide in a wordless cry. He watches the swell of Clint’s belly undulate, and he thrusts his fingers as deep as possible into Clint’s rhythmically clenching hole, only realizing now how achingly hard _he_ is in his jeans, hard enough to drill through _steel_.

“Oh my god, oh god … Phil, _I gotta ride your cock right now_.”

Coulson withdraws his fingers. Strips off his jeans and underwear and clambers onto the bed, half-sitting up with pillows against the headboard, his legs stretched out, his arms at his sides. Clint crawls over him and straddles his hips. He molds his hands to the hanging swell of Clint’s belly over Clint’s sweater, bracing its weight as Clint lowers himself onto his cock.

“Clint … _oh_ , you feel -”

“Fuck, oh _fuck_ -”

He groans in unison with Clint as Clint’s hot, slick body parts for him and then accepts him in one adamant slide. This has been his and Clint’s favorite sex position ever since Clint’s belly started to bulge, giving Clint control of the pace and depth of thrusts while allowing them to still face each other and hug and kiss even after being knotted. In just a month or so, Clint’s belly will be too big for them to make love like this, and Coulson?

Coulson intends to make _full_ use of that month to drive him and Clint _mad_ with sexual bliss like this.

As soon as Clint settles in Coulson’s lap, Clint is rising up again, his hands upon Coulson’s shoulders, his eyes shutting to half-mast, his head tipping forward. Coulson exhales hard as Clint sinks back down, his hands pressed to Clint’s belly.

“Oh. _Oh_ , that feels so good, babe … _oh yeah_.”

Clint’s head is now tipping back loosely, his spine arching and fluid even with the gravidness of his belly. Clint moans once more while he rolls his hips from side to side. Coulson murmurs little sounds of pleasure as he absorbs the new sensations of being enclosed by Clint’s vir labia, as Clint’s lips fall open and tremor.

“ _Oh_ _fuck_ , Phil, you feel so _good_.”

“Clint. _Clint_ ,” he whispers.

Clint’s hips make a circle, pressing down until they’re both panting, then circle back. Clint torments him like this several more times, clenching _tight_ around him, baring that warm, smooth throat to his eyes, his _fangs_. Clint shudders around him and cries out when he surges forward to bite such _succulent_ flesh offered so willingly to him.

“Fuck me, Phil,” Clint gasps. “ _Fuck me hard_.”

Still supporting Clint’s belly with both hands, Coulson draws his knees up and thrusts deeper into Clint. He grips Clint in place as he works his hips fast and strong, giving Clint every inch of his cock and yet making sure he doesn’t hurt him, doesn’t hurt the baby. In just seconds, Clint is panting hard, each breath breaking into a hoarse moan. Clint’s cock is hard again, rubbing against Coulson’s flat belly and his own round belly with every thrust. Coulson moves one hand away from Clint’s belly to grip Clint’s muscular thigh. He stares up at Clint while their foreheads are pressed together, at Clint’s eyes scrunched shut as he’s plowed hilt-deep again and again and _again_.

“I’m gonna come again, gonna come, _gonna come_ -”

“Yeah, come for me, sweetheart. _Come for me_ -”

Clint’s eyes flare open. His mouth falls open in a soundless scream and then yes, oh yes, _oh yes_ , Clint’s cock is pulsing and spurting ribbons of come onto Coulson’s stomach and Clint is fucking _squeezing_ his cock and wrenching harsh gasps out of him. He arches beneath Clint, his churning hips going erratic as he approaches his own orgasm. His thrusts turn shorter, sharper and Clint is now sobbing aloud and coiling up again with full-bodied tension and oh god, _god_ , holy shit, _Clint is coming again_ , quaking against him, jetting even more slick around his cock and down his balls, held upright by nothing more than their foreheads pressed together and his hands on Clint’s belly and flank.

Clint is insensate from the waves of pleasure as he thrusts in one last time, shoving his knot past the rim of Clint’s hole. He goes damn mindless himself as he comes deep inside his mate, roaring and juddering and wishing it will never, ever _end_.

Damn. Is he ever glad that their apartment is on its own floor. Just, _damn_.

After minutes - hours? _days_? - he reaches up to grasp Clint’s slumped shoulders with both hands. He bunts his forehead against Clint’s, feeling a spark of worry at Clint’s lack of reaction until Clint groans from obvious fulfillment and bunts him back. He releases a soft sigh and slides his left hand down to rub Clint’s rotund belly.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs.

Although Clint’s eyes are shut, Clint nods, their foreheads still touching.

“Yeah … yeah, I’m - I’m okay.” Clint also sighs. “I am _way_ more than okay.”

They chortle together between lethargic kisses and caresses as they wait for Coulson’s knot to shrink. Eventually, Clint opens his eyes and gazes into his, reluctant to get up and let Coulson’s cock slide out of him (and Coulson certainly empathizes with that).

“Temporary loss of balls, a shrunken dick and weird meat curtains … for epic, mind-blowing chains of orgasms?” Clint rasps, grinning like a man who’s just come five times in a row. “Yeah. I can deal with that,” and Coulson grins too, palming Clint’s generous buttocks and already brainstorming ways to make Clint come even _more_ times in succession the next time.

 

<<< >>>

 

 “How am I gonna be a good dad, Phil, if I never had one myself? What if I - what if …”

“What if?”

“What if I _become_ my dad? What if I become a _drunk bastard_ like him and I turn into a _monster_ and _hurt_ -”

“Clint.”

“What?”

“Look at me. Please.”

“This is fucking embarrassing.”

“What is?”

“Look at _me_ , I’m just talking about my old man who’s been _dead_ for decades and I was just eight years old and I didn’t even cry _then_. Stupid goddamn hormones. I hate feeling like this. I hate that I still dream about my old man and about _him_ and wake up _scared_ even though they’re both _dead_.”

“Hey, come here. Come here, sit between my legs. Let me hold you. It’s okay to feel that way. It is.”

“How am I gonna take care of our baby if I’m like _this_? Like I’m …”

“Like you’re what?”

“Weak. Scared. Worried. All the time.”

“Do you think strong, brave people never feel any of that? Ever?”

“I dunno. I … I don’t know.”

“I was once told by a wise, one-eyed man that courage and strength do not come from the absence of fear, but from the mastery of it.”

“Like … when I leap off a building and shoot my arrows?”

“Are you scared when you do that?”

“I … I guess I don’t think about it. I just - I do what I gotta do. ‘Cause the mission depends on me. ‘Cause people depend on me. I mean, if I start thinking about whether I’m gonna get hurt or _die_ , I’ll never get the job done. And other people will get hurt and die instead. I can’t allow that.”

“Hmm.”

“Are you laughing at me?”

“No, sweetheart. I’m laughing _with_ you. You have no idea, do you? You have no idea what a _magnificent_ person you are. You have no idea how _impossible_ it is that you’ll ever be like your father. We all feel scared, _all_ of us.”

“What, even _Fury_?”

“Yes. Even Nick. Especially him. He has _thousands_ of agents under his command at any given moment, and every decision he makes for SHIELD affects us all, the _world_ and he _knows_ that.”

“Why is it impossible, Phil? Why?”

“Because unlike you, your father was a slave to his fear. He didn’t care about anyone but himself. He was a coward to the end, who hid in the bottles he drank dry. A selfish, abusive coward who took your mother down with him because that’s how scared he was of himself and everything else. Then there’s you, Clint, the man who leaps off fifty-story buildings without hesitation and runs headlong into epic gunfights with a _bow_ and _arrows_ and confronts old enemies alone _despite_ being afraid, because you don’t want other people to get hurt and die.”

“I don’t want that.”

“Exactly. And what else? You know exactly how to be a good dad, because you know exactly what you needed that your father didn’t give you. And you have so much to give. Look at how much you’re looking forward to our baby being born, to our future together. Look at how much you _care_ about our baby’s well-being, and they’re not even here yet. If I even deigned to set up a scoreboard between you and your father, I have to say, you are winning by an unbeatable streak and I don’t see that changing any time soon, if ever.”

“Deigned? Did you actually say _deigned_?”

“Yes. Feeling better now?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“Good.”

“Phil?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For everything.”

“Clint?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank _you_ , for everything.”

“You’re welcome, babe. Always.”

 

<<< >>>

 

Clint’s water breaks at approximately 1:39 PM on a Thursday afternoon, while Clint is napping in his medical bay room next to the birthing ward on board the Helicarrier. Coulson is sitting in an armchair next to the bed, skimming through the usual paperwork (and there’s always paperwork, it never, _ever_ ends) that SHIELD demands of practically _everything_ , which is why he’s prepared for Clint jolting awake and scrambling to sit up while shoving down the blankets covering him.

“Oh, shit,” Clint mumbles, when they see the splash of wetness spreading across the white sheets between Clint’s thighs.

“Oh,” Coulson murmurs, his chest suddenly and simultaneously too constricted to breathe and too vast for his skin to contain. He’s stroking Clint’s tousled hair before he knows it, stroking Clint’s smooth cheek as Clint says, “I’m scared, Phil.”

Clint’s eyes are wide and shining. Clint’s lips are also tremoring into a soft smile, an excited one, and Coulson pulls Clint into a snug embrace with his head tucked under his chin, the line of his throat working in a long, hard swallow as he rubs his mate’s back from shoulders to waist.

“I know. So am I, sweetheart. And it’s okay. Everything’s going to be _okay_.”

He hugs Clint tighter when Clint does the same to him. He nestles his face into Clint’s luxuriant hair and he tells himself to breathe, _breathe_.

It feels like only yesterday that he and Clint were in the en suite bathroom in their apartment, gaping at the pregnancy tests with their blue crosses or red double lines. Their baby is coming. _Their baby_ is going to be _here_ with them soon.

“Get me the sweater, please,” Clint says a few minutes later, referring to the cable knit, light gray sweater that still flows loosely over Clint’s hefty belly at this point in time (and smells so much more of Clint than him now, considering how often Clint’s worn it throughout the pregnancy).

Coulson retrieves it from the wardrobe next to the bed then helps Clint don it while Clint sits on the side of the bed. Indeed, it swaddles Clint like a thick, succoring blanket, adding warmth over Clint’s white t-shirt and stretchy, black (and now soaked) sweatpants. They leave the room with Coulson at Clint’s left side, an arm wrapped around Clint’s waist. Coulson instructs a passing nurse to inform Dr. Chiew of Clint’s water breaking, and then they saunter on to the private delivery room in the birthing ward that Coulson had booked months in advance.

It’s at the very end of a long corridor of delivery rooms, the farthest from the rest of the medical bay. It is also one of four rooms that are soundproofed. With Clint insisting on a natural birth and no drugs whatsoever, he is certain Clint will appreciate that feature of the room when the most painful phase of the birth commences.

Clint experiences the first major contraction three doors away from their room. Clint stumbles to a halt in the middle of the corridor, his back ramrod straight, his eyes narrowed and his lower lip sucked in. Apart from that, Clint makes no noise and lets Coulson press gentle hands to his lower back and the underside of his cramping belly. And damn, cramping may be an understatement to describe how _hard_ Clint’s belly is as the uterine muscles contract.

It lasts for half a minute, after which Clint says with a face going slack, “Well, _that_ was fun.”

Clint and Coulson smile wryly at each other. It’s only going to worsen from here until the baby is born, and Dr. Chiew had already warned them that first births can drag on for half day. Maybe _more_ than a day.

Coulson really, _really_ doesn’t want his beloved mate to suffer. But what can he say, since Clint is so single-minded about being drug-free?

Clint’s body is his own, and Coulson respects that, even if it means Clint’s going to be in agony.

Dr. Chiew shows up while Clint is making himself comfortable on an inclined birthing bed. The bed’s stirrups are different from those Coulson’s seen in regular hospitals in that they’re lower, padded and meant to be stepped on as counter-pressure. Clint eagerly tests them out, grinning and stepping hard on them with bare feet and long, lean legs as athletic as they’ve always been. (If not more so, due to Clint having had more free time to physically work out in lieu of being on missions or at the archery range.) To Coulson’s approval, the stirrups don’t budge. They’re durable enough to handle Clint’s strength.

“ _Somebody_ _’s_ having a good time,” Dr. Chiew says in jovial greeting, smiling at them as she enters the room in a white lab coat and a high-neck, black midi dress, her black hair tied up in a bun.

“Hiya, Doc,” Clint says then stomps on the stirrups again. “You’re about to get up-close and personal with my snatch.”

“Wouldn’t be the first one I’ve seen,” Dr. Chiew replies with an amused smirk, snapping on a pair of medical gloves.

Coulson can’t help the quirking up of his lips as Clint draws him nearer to the side of the birthing bed and grins up at him. That’s his mate right there, cracking terrible jokes and being playful and positive while they’re heading into new, _dangerous_ territory.

There’s no telling what may occur in the hours ahead. There’s no guarantee that everything will proceed smoothly, that there won’t be any complications, what with the physical trauma Clint had to endure almost two years ago to his lower abdomen. On top of that, out of all the genders, Omega males have the highest mortality rate for childbirth, even with current achievements in obstetrics.

Coulson plants a kiss on Clint’s left temple, and tries not to let his hands tremble.

He helps Clint strip off Clint’s sweatpants. Clint teases him about him folding it up by habit and putting it aside on a nearby white table. Clint goes silent, though, as Dr. Chiew examines him between his now naked legs. Clint doesn’t like anyone else except Coulson touching him, but Dr. Chiew is a necessary exception. She’s a professional, ethical Beta doctor too (which is why Coulson allows it in the first place).

“Okay,” she says once she’s done. “It might be while.”

Clint is _still_ single-minded about not receiving any painkillers for the labor and birth, even after another major contraction that lasts for almost a minute and has Clint grimacing.

“No.” Clint shakes his head several times, his lips pressed together in that stubborn way Coulson’s so familiar with. “No drugs. If something goes wrong, I can’t feel it and - _no drugs_.”

Coulson shares a quick glance with Dr. Chiew, then strokes the back of Clint’s head and nape.

“Okay, sweetheart. Okay.”

Dr. Chiew comes and goes throughout the following hours, checking the dilation of Clint’s cervix with each visit. There are two other births taking place in other rooms, and while she’s attending to them, it’s just Coulson and Clint in the privacy of their warm-lit delivery room. They share a few bottles of water and some jell-o (although Clint eats all the grape-flavored ones). Clint goes to the en suite bathroom often to urinate, the first four times on his own, then with Coulson supporting him every time after that, particularly when contractions hit. Coulson knows Clint had felt vulnerable being naked from the hips down in front of Dr. Chiew, but as the pain ratchets up, as the contractions become longer and closer, he also knows Clint is no longer giving a damn about it.

“ _Aww_ , man, this sucks,” Clint groans into Coulson’s shoulder and through yet another minute-long contraction, while he and Coulson stand near the birthing bed with Coulson’s arms tight around him, swaying in place. The swaying motion seems to help Clint tolerate the pain (and if he remembers right, it’s helping the baby turn and move down through Clint’s widening pelvis too).

“You can still change your mind about painkillers,” Coulson says, massaging the cramping muscles of Clint’s lower back. “It’s not too late.”

Clint shakes his head forcefully against his shoulder. He hushes Clint’s protests. He purrs deep in his chest and also massages the bonding gland in Clint’s shoulder. It’ll help with the pain alleviation as well, along with the Alpha pheromones his own glands are pumping out. At this point in labor, Clint’s pelvis is spreading even farther and wider apart to make room for the baby to pass through and it’ll only be a matter of time until Clint will want to be off his feet again.

Clint has only more agony to look forward to, for hours yet.

The labor progresses into active labor five hours after Clint’s water breaks. Clint’s contractions now last a minute, coming every three to five minutes with a peak that sometimes leaves Clint incapable of speaking. In other circumstances, Coulson would be joking about how he’s finally discovered a means of muting Clint’s running, cheeky mouth. But one look at Clint biting his lower lip, at Clint’s creased brow, at Clint rocking back and forth on the birthing bed and groaning through gritted teeth, and everything flies out of Coulson’s mind except to comfort his suffering mate in whatever way he can.

“S’strange … I’ve been shot and stabbed and worse,” Clint pants, after a really vicious contraction has passed and leaves him sweating and wan. “And I never felt pain like this ‘fore.”

Coulson presses his left hand to the rounded underside of Clint’s belly, where a once gaping knife wound has long healed into a faded, horizontal scar. He hugs Clint closer to his torso, nuzzling Clint’s temple and stroking Clint’s hair.

“Do you want drugs now?”

Once more, Clint shakes his head vehemently.

“Clint, are you sure?”

Mere minutes before, Dr. Chiew had cautioned them that at the speed Clint’s labor is now advancing, it will soon be too late to administer an epidural for it to take full effect before Clint has to push. This is Clint’s last chance to have it.

“I’m sure,” Clint rasps faintly, and the exhaustion apparent in his mate’s voice sends a stabbing sensation through Coulson’s chest. “Just … be here with me.”

Coulson presses a kiss on Clint’s temple, then on Clint’s cheek when Clint gazes up at him with tired but gleaming eyes.

“I’m here. I’m right here.”

Later, Dr. Chiew examines Clint again, and this time, she tells them with an encouraging smile that Clint is almost dilated to ten centimeters. Coulson is now sitting on the side of the birthing bed, supporting Clint upright with one arm around Clint’s back, rubbing Clint’s contracting belly with his other hand over Clint’s (his, _their_ ) cable knit sweater. Clint is leaning his head against Coulson’s. Clint says nothing to Dr. Chiew’s announcement, breathing audibly and shallowly, his eyes shut and his long eyelashes dark fans over pale cheeks, the small line of pain between his eyebrows seemingly etched there in permanence.

“Just a little while longer, Clint,” Dr. Chiew says as she sits on a stool between Clint’s legs, her brown eyes kind. “You’re almost there.”

A little while longer turns out to be about nine minutes, which ends with Clint suddenly shuddering and sitting up straighter on the birthing bed, gasping loudly. Coulson braces Clint with both arms, one still around Clint’s back and the other for Clint to grip with an iron hold with both hands.

“Oh my god,” Clint rasps, blinking a few times. “I can - I can feel the baby move down, I -” Clint gasps again. “I’m sorry, I have to, I have to push -”

“Clint, go for it,” Dr. Chiew says, snapping on a fresh pair of medical gloves and shifting closer to the birthing bed between Clint’s spread legs.

Coulson can feel Clint’s belly harden and _rise_ under his hand with each contraction, with each vigorous push that has Clint stepping hard on the padded stirrups and panting after each one. Dr. Chiew had told them months ago that this stage of the birth usually lasts from a half hour to one, though it can also last much longer.

Their baby is almost here. _Their baby_.

“You remember … when Sitwell once told us about … that kidney stone he got?”

Clint is still able to speak in the transient lulls between pushes, hoarsely, the words catching between sharp breaths.

“Yes,” Coulson murmurs, smiling in amusement as he recalls that very story and how _horrified_ Clint had looked throughout Sitwell’s rather _graphic_ recounting of passing a kidney stone that had felt like ‘a ball of razor blades slashing its way through his urethra and all the way out his dick in epic slow motion’.

“Yeah, the pain level for that? I think that - that probably came _pretty close_ to … _this_ …”

Coulson waits to respond until Clint has finished pushing another time, his throat constricting at the sight of Clint’s right hand squeezing the side railing of the birthing bed, its knuckles bone-white.

“At least we’ll be getting a baby out of this and not a kidney stone,” he says with a deadpan expression.

Clint laughs ( _laughs_!) at that, his whole flushed, sweat-dotted face lighting up with an open-mouthed grin and crinkled, twinkling eyes, and Coulson knows then, somehow, that they’re going to be just fine. Even Dr. Chiew smiles.

Unfortunately, Clint’s mirth is short-lived. Another massive contraction hits all too soon, and Clint winces and hisses between his teeth.

“Oh god, here comes another one, fuck, fuck, _motherfuck_ , FUCK -”

Coulson glances in Dr. Chiew’s direction and sees that she has her gloved hands in the cusp of Clint’s spread, quavering thighs and okay, okay, he remembers reading about this part, he remembers _seeing_ this part from various childbirth videos he searched online. Dr. Chiew ’s using her hands to make sure Clint doesn’t push too fast, doesn’t _tear_ because -

“You’re doing good, Clint. The head’s starting to crown, okay?”

Clint doesn’t answer her, still caught in the latest contraction and push. He’s panting hard afterward, sweat rolling down his right temple.

“You know - you know when -” Clint swallows hard, then sucks in another harsh breath as yet another contraction begins to surge through his fatigued body. “When they said it’d be _like_ \- oh, _oh fuck_ , that _hurts_ \- they said it’d be like _pushing out a goddamn watermelon_ through a _pin hole_? They weren’t kidding!”

Clint doesn’t speak at all for the next several pushes, biting his lower lip hard, grinding his teeth to not scream, squeezing his eyes shut and forgetting to inhale any precious oxygen until Coulson strokes his now damp hair, his face and tells him to breathe, Clint, _breathe, you need to breathe_.

“Let go, sweetheart. It’s okay,” he whispers, brushing his thumb across Clint’s reddened, gnawed lower lip. “It’s just you and me and Tam. No one else can hear you. I promise.”

Clint inhales sharply once, twice through his mouth. Clint grabs at the birthing bed’s side railing again, the sweater’s sleeve rolled up to the tense bicep. Clint turns his head and instinctively, Coulson nuzzles his face, pressing more kisses to Clint’s cheek and corner of his lips.

“Okay,” Clint rasps, his eyes shut. “I’m going to scream now.”

Tears spring to Coulson’s eyes the first time Clint does so, as Clint begins pushing their baby’s head out. Clint’s muscular thighs are shaking from the exertion and agony, and he can _hear_ every iota of that agony in Clint ’s voice, _see_ it in the curling of Clint ’s feet and toes against the stirrups, in the veins standing out in Clint’s arms and _feel_ it under his hand that’s now grasping Clint’s left thigh.

“You’re doing really good, Clint. The head’s crowning at its widest now, okay?”

Again, Clint is unable to speak as he sucks in deep, gasping breaths through his mouth in the momentary reprieve between unforgiving contractions. Coulson’s right arm is about the only thing keeping Clint upright now, and he’s loath to move away from Clint for even a _second_ to raise the inclination of the birthing bed. That, and Clint’s left hand has his left forearm in a vise-like grip, fingernails digging red crescent moons into his skin. (He sees them, but he doesn’t feel them at all.)

When Clint pushes again with yet another contraction, he screams a second time, louder and higher in pitch. Coulson blinks searing eyes hard as Clint turns his head towards him once more, seeking release and comfort from his Alpha. He tucks Clint’s head under his chin and nuzzles the top of Clint’s head. He squeezes his eyes shut. He entwines the fingers of his right hand with Clint’s at Clint’s rigid side. He doesn’t care that Clint’s scream is deafening, that it careens through him like an avalanche flattening his defenses. He wishes he could endure the agony for his beloved mate, all of it, _all of it_. He wishes Clint doesn’t have to suffer like this at all, for bringing into this world their precious and so yearned child -

“Okay, the head is out!” Dr. Chiew says with cheer from afar. “It’s almost over!”

Coulson’s knees go weak the instant Clint’s scream cuts off and segues into coarse, hot panting against the hollow below his throat. He feels Clint’s whole body shudder and then _unwind_ for the first time since the contractions started. He lets go of Clint’s left thigh and embraces Clint with both arms, rubbing Clint’s upper right arm over and over.

“Oh my god … oh my god, _oh my god_.”

Coulson opens his eyes and glances down to see Clint’s face pale and tear-streaked and _happy_.

“Okay … okay, I was wrong,” Clint says gravelly and faintly, gazing up at him with glistening eyes at half-mast. “This is actually - _actually_ more like pushing the fucking _quinjet_ out.”

Coulson snorts and blinks again, and again when his stupid eyes fill up _again_.

“Well, that’s another image I’m not going to get out of my mind soon,” he says with what he hopes is a firm, nonchalant voice.

And oh, _oh_ , there’s that resilient, _joyful_ laugh again, that open-mouthed grin and those crinkled, twinkling eyes. Coulson pets Clint’s spiky, blond hair gone darker from sweat. He gently wipes away the sweat and tears from Clint’s face with the long sleeve of his black t-shirt. He’s so proud, _damn proud_ of how strong and _dedicated_ his Omega mate is to him, to their baby, of how Clint is stroking his left arm and thinking about _him_ even now, consoling _him_ when Clint is the one in so much pain.

“Phil?” Clint rasps, his voice a little more steady now.

“Yes?” he asks against Clint’s forehead.

“I want a new Hawkeye outfit … More purple and padding and sexy lines to show off my hot bod.”

Coulson presses a kiss to Clint’s forehead.

“Done.”

“And I - I want a new bow and arrows to play with. Arrows that make things go kaboom … Lots and lots of kaboom.”

Coulson nods, utterly straight-faced.

“All right.”

“And I want - I want a mini Hawkeye outfit for baby too. It’d be like … like, mini-me and mega-me.”

Coulson’s lips tremor for a moment, but he holds fast to his deadpan mien. It’s a damn endearing image, their baby in a Hawkeye onesie, clinging onto a toy bow and arrow with chubby hands.

“Okay.”

“And I - and I want a baby harness … so I can take baby along with me when I’m running and leaping around. Good exercise regimen!”

“Uh-uh,” Coulson says, shaking his head, still _utterly_ straight-faced.

He almost loses it when Clint lets out a noise of outrage and smacks him (weakly) on the chest.

“This is - _this_ is _especially_ the part where you say, ‘Of course, honey.’ This part!”

Coulson begins to chuckle, and so does Clint, their shoulders shaking and their foreheads touching. But all too soon, too soon, Clint is overcome by another contraction, a truly mighty one that makes Clint bare his teeth and scrunch his whole face from the pain.

“Oh god, here we go _again_ -”

“Okay, one more _big_ push, just the shoulders now,” Dr. Chiew says, amiable and unflappable as ever.

Clint screams once more as he pushes as hard he can, hunching forward, his head clasped against Coulson’s with one large, warm hand cupping the side of his face. Halfway through the contraction, Clint’s eyes abruptly pop open from shock. His scream fractures into a stuttering gasp.

“Stop kicking me, baby, I’m not a goddamn punching bag!” Clint cries out shrilly in the direction of his (not as) rotund belly, still pushing.

Mouth agape, Coulson drops his hand from Clint’s face to Clint’s bulging lower belly where the rest of their baby is … _struggling_ inside his mate’s straining body, trying to free themselves from stretching and compressing flesh that’s gradually squeezing them out. He’d read about babies already opening their eyes after their parent has pushed out their heads, but _kicking inside_? On top of the brutal contractions?

Jesus, he’s going to _really_ spoil Clint for the next _year_ or so. At the very _least_.

“Come on, you can _do_ this, Clint!” Dr. Chiew says confidently. “Just one more _big_ push!”

Clint is beyond exhausted. Clint sucks one sharp, shaky breath, two, and then he’s pushing _hard_ and _screaming_ and arching his back so much that his hips buck and Coulson has to cage Clint ’s torso with both arms lest Clint tumbles off the birthing bed. Coulson presses his cheek against Clint’s sweaty forehead while Clint clutches at his arms with trembling hands. No, it isn’t the head that’s widest, it’s the _shoulders_ that have to pass through such a _small_ and _delicate_ opening that can so easily _rip_ and Clint’s scream is no sign of weakness, it’s the _battle roar_ of a _warrior_ and suddenly, suddenly, there’s a sluicing noise and Clint’s voice breaks and Clint’s entire body just goes _limp_ in Coulson’s arms, shivering from head to toe and … Dr. Chiew is holding a baby in her gloved hands, all wet and _pink_ and limbs flailing in the air.

Coulson’s heart shoots up into his throat even as he crushes a panting, wearied Clint to his chest.

Oh, god. Oh, wow. Oh, _wow_ , their baby is here. _Their baby is finally here_.

And as a baby born of an Omega mate like Clint Barton is destined to do, their baby comes out _fighting_ with no holds barred, no qualm. Their baby’s (sweet, lovely, _perfect_ ) face scrunches up with an ear-piercing _howl_ that puts their daddy’s earlier screams to shame. It rouses Clint from his stupor, who stares at their wailing baby with wide, glistening eyes of amazement and infatuation and _love_ , so much of it, more than the universe can embody in all its stars and planets and supernovas.

“Holy shit. I did it,” Clint whispers, grinning a grin that surpasses even the sun in its radiance. “ _I did it_!”

Dr. Chiew is grinning too as she tells Coulson and Clint, “It’s a girl,” and then says to the still crying baby, “Sweetie, you got to be at least nine pounds!”

Coulson feels like bawling like his baby - his _daughter_! - too, his lower jaw threatening to tremor and release what would be humiliating sounds coming from a grown man, his eyes going wet and hot. After everything that’s happened to him and Clint, after almost _losing_ this path in life to the violent insanity of a psychotic serial killer … he and Clint are _parents_. He and Clint _have a baby girl_ who’s theirs, _all theirs_ and alive and safe and _well_. Listen to her cry with such vitality and indignation!

Clint doesn’t seem to mind at all as he burrows his face into Clint’s hair and _crushes_ Clint in a breath-stealing embrace. Clint is stroking his arm with both hands, consoling his Alpha mate, knowing exactly how he’s feeling right now from his scent and the new dampness trickling into Clint’s hair.

 _I love you_ , Coulson thinks with every cell in his being, _I love you so damn much_.

“Love you,” Clint whispers, just enough for him to hear.

He regains his composure swiftly after that. He stands straighter, his head held high, his arms still around Clint as they gaze at their baby girl again who’s being inspected by Dr. Chiew and Clint says with a voice still rough, “ _Nine_ freaking pounds? That’ll explain why I’m gonna walk bow-legged for the rest of my life.”

“As if you already don’t,” Coulson says, and _oh_ , oh yes, there’s that jubilant, full-bodied laugh once more, that laugh that he’ll never tire of, that he always wants to hear.

Dr. Chiew places their baby on Clint’s now flatter abdomen. She hands Clint and Coulson a white, fluffy towel to clean and dry the baby with, but it’s Coulson who does most of the work one-handed while Clint, enervated and sluggish, coos and smiles at her and caresses her round head with feather-light touches.

“Hi, baby,” Clint rasps, his eyes glistening again. “Hi, beautiful. Welcome to the world.”

Their daughter immediately stops crying when she hears Clint’s voice. They touch and stroke her with their bare hands, scenting her with their mingled scents so she’ll recognize them long before she can see them clearly or speak. It’s also their mark of protection and claim upon her, an unmistakable beacon to everyone else that she’s _theirs_ , that they’ll love her and shield her and hunt down anyone who dares hurt a hair on her head to the end of the world and make them _pay_ with blood.

Coulson is in something of an euphoric trance as he’s guided by Dr. Chiew to clamp the umbilical cord and cut it. He vaguely recalls asking her about the placenta and if Clint will be in pain again pushing it out. Clint ends up pushing it out without even knowing it, so enchanted as he is by their baby.

“ _Sshh_ , baby, it’s okay, I know,” Clint murmurs to their gurgling, squirming daughter, smiling to himself. “You didn’t enjoy that very much, huh? I didn’t either.”

Coulson returns to Clint’s side as their baby’s eyes begin to open. He watches Clint reverently pick her up with both hands and swaddle her close to his chest within the thick, fuzzy warmth of the cable knit sweater. He watches Clint kiss her on the forehead, then on her cheek, and now he is the one smiling to himself, wondering how Clint could have believed for even a _moment_ that he would be a bad father.

Dr. Chiew hands him a light blue blanket that he tugs over Clint’s lower body, after she’s examined Clint and ascertained that Clint (miraculously) didn’t tear at all and just needs lots of rest. He watches Clint bond with their baby with an emotion that’s too monumental to be described as ecstatic, and he smiles, he smiles.

“My baby. My baby.” Clint nuzzles their now serene and drowsy daughter’s plump cheek, then kisses it again. Then, Clint raises his head and gazes up at him with eyes as luminous as expanding stars, as if Clint still can’t quite believe that they’re really here in this place and time, that Coulson is his mate and the father of their baby. “Our baby.”

Coulson climbs onto the birthing bed and rolls onto his side to face Clint. He shuts his eyes and bunts his forehead against Clint’s, smiling even broader as Clint bunts his forehead right back and rubs them together, both of them grateful to have this dream come true. Clint slides easily (perfectly) into his arms with their daughter snuggled between them.

Coulson touches her chubby, smooth cheek. He marvels at its incomparable silkiness, at its sacred warmth under his fingertips.

“Ours,” he murmurs, and he leans down to press his first kiss upon her forehead, the first of a million more to come.

 

<<< >>>

 

Since they didn’t know the sex of their baby until she was born, Coulson and Clint hadn’t really bothered to make a list of potential names. Just a couple of names, mostly those of close relatives from Coulson’s side of the family, like his father’s name if the baby’s a boy or his mother’s if the baby’s a girl. He could tell, however, that Clint wasn’t serious about them, that Clint wanted a name that doesn’t belong to somebody they already know. Clint had been certain that the name will come to them after the birth, that maybe the _baby_ will choose one for themselves.

“How?” he’d asked Clint with a deadpan face. “Do we put the baby name book in front of the baby and let them point at one?”

“Yes! That’s a _great_ idea!” Clint had replied enthusiastically, grinning and pointing both forefingers at him in emphasis. “I bought another one today: The Worst Baby Name Book Ever! It’s funny! We gotta use that one, okay? It’ll be _great_!”

Really, he loves his beloved mate _very_ much but nobody can blame him for hiding _all_ the baby name books after that, can they?

Of course, that was before their baby girl was born. Once she arrived into the world, Clint was _absolutely_ dead set on letting the name ‘come naturally’ to them, refusing to glance at even one baby name book, much less let the baby near one. (Thank _goodness_.)

The only problem now is, without the books as a jumping-off point, Clint is on a roll generating all kinds of names that are making Coulson genuinely regret burning that Worst Baby Name Book Ever book.

“Fifi Barton-Coulson.”

“No.”

“Arrowana Barton-Coulson.”

“No!”

“Hermajesty Barton-Coulson.”

“Good lord, _no_.”

“Quinjetta Barton-Coulson.”

“Really, Clint?”

“She sure _felt_ like a quinjet coming out my cooch!”

Okay, Coulson doesn’t have much of a comeback to that, since he’d _been_ there when Clint pushed out their baby and screamed from the hours of _pain_ of it. But there is no way, _no way_ he is going to accept the name Clint comes up with next.

“Whoopie Cushion Barton-Coulson, because she farts so much.”

This, after Clint has finally stopped laughing his ass off at their almost two-month-old baby girl and her _flatulent symphony_ while Clint’s changing her diapers. (Not that Coulson didn’t laugh either, but it had been more Clint’s uproarious laughter and flailing of those ever muscular arms like a beached Tyrannosaurus Rex that made him lose it.)

“ _No_ ,” he replies vehemently, his arms akimbo, his lips sucked in to keep them from arching up into a traitorous smile.

Their baby girl concludes _that_ naming attempt with a _bottom burp_ that sends Clint into another fit of laughter and a gasped out, “That’s my little _Bumsen burner_!”

Coulson vetoes _that_ name as well.

The one time Clint permits someone outside of their small family to suggest baby names is when Nick pays them a visit the following weekend and sticks around for dinner. As intimidating as Nick appears to everyone else with his glaring eye, ominous eye patch and menacing leather jacket, their baby girl is _enamored_ with him at first sight, staring at Nick’s face with humongous, unblinking blue eyes, her rosy and chubby face brightening with a toothless smile whenever Nick leans forward to gaze at her with a twinkling, brown eye.

(Clint manages to snap _one_ photo of Nick clasping their baby before Nick coolly says, “If that picture ever leaves this apartment, I will ship you to our base in Antarctica to huddle with Emperor penguins in the dead of winter.” Clint takes the threat seriously. Although he doesn’t quite see what’s so bad about hanging around Emperor penguins and their downy, _adorable_ babies.)

“Marcus,” Nick says at the dinner table, utterly, completely straight-faced. “Or Johnson.”

Coulson, sitting opposite Nick and to Clint’s left, crosses his arms over his chest and says with a glower, “Our baby is a _girl_.”

“It’s the 21st century. Get with the times, _Cheese_ ,” Nick says, still utterly, completely straight-faced.

Clint, who’s cuddling the baby upright and face out to his chest, says with an also utterly, completely straight face, “If I call the baby Marcus Johnson, do I get promoted to Deputy Director?”

“ _No_ ,” Coulson growls, his fangs out.

His intelligent, rational, brainy daughter obviously gurgles in protest because she is intelligent and rational and brainy unlike these two _dumbasses_ at the table. Clint takes it to mean their little girl is getting fussy and needs a burp, which is fine too.

Eventually, _eventually_ , Clint does make a thoughtful endeavor of naming their baby. Clint reveals this to him several nights after the dinner with Nick, while they’re snuggled in bed with the baby lying chest down on Clint’s chest and draped with a light purple, fleece baby blanket stitched with cartoon yellow chicks (that he bought on a whim after bringing Clint and baby home from the Helicarrier). The stubble on Clint’s cheek and lower jaw tickles his forehead (and oh, how he’d missed the sensation of it throughout Clint’s pregnancy).

“Tell me it has nothing to do with flatulence,” he mutters against Clint’s right shoulder while he repeatedly strokes their calm, quiet baby from nape to lower back with his right hand.

He and the baby shake along with Clint as Clint snickers.

“Nah. I’m _serious_ , okay? I thought of a real name for her. But …” Clint wrinkles his nose in genuine self-deprecation. “I dunno, maybe you’ll think it’s _weird_. Or it sounds _funny_ -”

“Clint. She’s your baby too, you know.”

“Yeah, I _know_ that.”

Clint rolls his eyes but it’s softened seconds later by the slight smile that casts a warm glow across Clint’s face. Coulson patiently waits, stilling his hand upon their baby’s back when Clint tightens his embrace around her and kisses her on the crown of her dark-haired head.

“Imogen,” Clint murmurs, gazing down at the baby whose eyes are half-open. “It’s Greek for ‘beloved child’.”

“Imogen,” Coulson murmurs too, immediately taking a liking to it.

“It’s got a nice ring to it, right?”

Coulson raises himself up on one elbow. Clint gazes at his face all the while, and when he returns the gaze, he sees Clint’s buoyant expression. He caresses Clint’s cheek with the back of his fingers. He glances down at their baby in Clint’s arms, at her blinking her eyes owlishly up at him.

“Imogen,” he murmurs again.

His lips quirk up as their baby’s pouting lips twitch and then bow up in an angelic smile. He dips down, kisses her on her tender temple, then her chunky, silken cheek. Snuffles her gossamer hair and breathes in her fresh, sweet and immensely gratifying scent that reminds him of baked apple pie and evergreen leaves and honeyed giggles.

“Hello, Imogen Barton-Coulson,” he says against his daughter’s forehead, feeling Clint’s lips part against his own stubbly cheek into a grin of contentment.

 

<<< >>>

 

Clint is _pretty_ certain that what’s in his stomach as he strides to Director Fury’s office is not the fluttering of moth wings. It’s just gas. That’s it, that’s what he gets for eating ground beef tacos for lunch. He is Clint goddamn Barton AKA Hawkeye, one of the _best_ specialist agents in the organization (it’s true, he’s not bragging, man, he’s _earned_ it despite the crap his last four handlers say about his _attitude_ ) and he is _not_ scared of Fury. No. Non. Nein. Nyet. Nuh uh.

The only reason he halts in front of the door of Fury’s office for several seconds (one, _two_ at most!) is that it’s good form to check whether he’s presentable or not before confronting his Alpha boss (the scariest motherfucker on the planet). _That_ _’s it_.

He’s about to meet his fifth handler too, and for some reason Fury will be introducing them to each other instead of letting the agent introduce himself. He’d heard rumors for weeks now that his new handler is some guy who’s _really_ tight with Fury. Like, ultimate bros for life-level of tight. The guy’s also got one hell of a badass rep as a top-level agent, with _zero_ failed missions on his record so far (just like _him_ ) after working for SHIELD for over _fifteen years_. And any man who can gain _Fury_ _’s_ respect and _friendship_?

He must be … an even _scarier_ motherfucker. An _Alpha_ one, at that. An Alpha handler who won’t know he’s an Omega, that he’s been masquerading as a Beta all this time.

Shit.

Oh, shit.

Unlike his former handlers, _this_ guy may just be the one to step up to the plate of … _handling_ him for real. This guy can _kick_ his ass for real, even when he’s armed with his bow and arrows, if a fraction of the gossip about him are true. (The one about the guy taking down a horde of ninjas in Okinawa with a _tie clip_ did impress him, he has to admit that.) This guy can probably _kill_ him and simply tell Fury about it and get Fury to _help bury his corpse and make him disappear forever_.

Oh, _shit_. This is what he gets for not playing nice with his former handlers, for pushing Fury too far until Fury has to relegate him to an agent like _that_.

He knocks on the door of Fury’s office and marches in anyway.

In the years to follow, he’ll realize that he doesn’t remember much of Fury’s response to his entrance. He doesn’t remember much of anything except the supremely hot, handsome, smartly dressed, _divine_ Alpha man sitting in an armchair in front of Fury’s desk, watching him raptly with sharp, blue eyes as he approaches with (what he hopes are) bold, determined steps and a head held high and assuredly.

Okay, correction, ‘hot’ and ‘handsome’ don’t even come _close_ to portraying the guy’s looks, the nearer he gets to Fury’s desk. There’s just _something_ about the combination of that thin yet styled, dark hair and slightly crooked nose and pink, supple lips and those eyes, those big blue _eyes_ under dark, shapely eyebrows that’s just … doing really, really _funny_ things to his insides (to that thumping thing in the left side of his chest).

But most of all, it’s the Alpha’s unadulterated scent that sends his blood _rushing_ through his veins and straight down to his loins, this rich, earthy, clean and _virile_ scent that he’s never smelled from anyone else before. It’s distinctive. _Delicious_. It makes him want to _eat_ this guy up, swallow the guy’s cock down his throat, swallow whatever he can _get_. He wants to go down on his hands and knees _right now_ and present his ass and slick hole and _beg_ to be _fucked_ until his brains are mush and holy fuck, he’s never, _ever_ thought about doing that for _anyone_ , regardless of their gender. He’d rather be _dead_ than submit to an Alpha that way, after what happened in Waverly all those years ago (although in his goddamn nightmares it feels like it happened only moments ago). And yet … and _yet_.

He wants to. He _wants_ to, for _this_ Alpha.

 _Oh_ , he thinks as the Alpha agent stands up in one smooth move, buttoning the tailored jacket of his pinstriped, navy suit, _it_ _’s you, the one I never thought I’d find and found anyway_.

The Alpha offers a large, long-fingered hand for a shake.

“I’m Agent Phil Coulson,” he says in the most _sublime_ , low voice Clint has ever heard. “I will be your handler from now on.”

 _And forever and ever_ , Clint thinks, still staring at the most delectable, _dashing_ Alpha man he’s ever met, _if I have it my way_.

“Barton. Clint Barton.” He reaches out and grasps Coulson’s hand and oh damn, it’s so warm and _strong_ and it fits just _nice_ in his, like they were meant to _be_. “But maybe you know me better as Hawkeye, sir.”

Coulson nods and says, “You have excellent marksmanship with a variety of bows and arrows. You also hold numerous world records for archery that have yet to be defeated, mastered over half a dozen martial arts, and so far succeeded in every mission you’ve been assigned to.”

Clint has to consciously stop his tongue from licking his lower lip. From licking _Coulson_ _’s_ lower lip. Holy _fuck_ , who would have thought that listening to Coulson say all those _good_ things about him would be so _arousing_?

If he didn’t know better, he’d swear that Coulson sounds _proud_ of him. Which can’t be, seeing as they met each other _minutes_ ago. This is the first time Clint’s seen and met Coulson. But what if … this _isn_ _’t_ the first time Coulson’s seen him?

“You should come by the range some time,” he replies, arranging his features into (what he _hopes_ is) an intrepid smile, “and see how I _really_ perform in person.”

 _Arrows aren_ _’t the only phallic things I’m good at_ handling _, ya know_ , he also wants to say, except he’s _definitely_ not that crazy. He hasn’t heard anything about Coulson being sexually attracted to men (but he’s going to find out, oh yes, he _will_ ).

“I already have,” Coulson says, and oh man, the thought of Coulson watching him working his magic with his bow and arrows at the range, watching him in _secret_ and _liking_ what he sees is just … _hot_. Exploding hydrogen bomb-hot.

“You like what you saw, sir?”

“You certainly left an … impression.”

Clint sees Coulson’s (sexy, _kissable_ ) lips quirk up in a not-smile that makes his _toes_ tingle. He smiles back, his whole face joining in on the action with bunched cheeks and crinkled, twinkling eyes.

And that’s when he realizes that he’s still holding onto Coulson’s hand.

And that _Coulson_ is still holding onto _his_ hand.

And that Nick goddamn Fury has been watching them holding hands like a pair of teenagers in puppy love _flirting_ with each other.

“Is this the part where I whip out a _hose_ and spray you both with cold water?” Fury says from behind his desk and ah, shit, Clint can _tell_ that Fury is smirking at the both of them without looking at the guy. If his face is flaming red like he _thinks_ it is, he is going to jump off the Helicarrier once he leaves the room. Yes. Da. Si. Oui. Hai. _Yep_.

Coulson is the first to let go, releasing his hand with a slide of fingers across the length of his palm, leaving scorching trails in their wake. He is _so_ glad that he isn’t wearing his gloves today, that he was able to feel every crease and callus of Coulson’s hand pressed against his. He is never going to wash his hand again. Never. _Ever_. (Obviously he has to sooner or later, but it’s the _thought_ that counts, all right?)

He deliberately keeps his hands open and loose at his sides. He inhales long and deep through his nose, and savors that rich, earthy, clean Alpha scent like the finest wine. (God, he wishes he wasn’t wearing the Beta scent cologne. He wishes Coulson can smell his _true_ scent and realize he’s an Omega. An _unclaimed_ one.)

“I think this is gonna be the start of a beautiful relationship, sir,” he says, smiling that intrepid smile again while wishing his face will stop being so _warm_ already.

And yeah, in retrospect, he should have known just how fucking amazing and _unbelievable_ his future’s going to be (with this amazing, unbelievable, _exquisite_ Alpha man), when Coulson - _Phil_ gazes into his eyes with bright, blue ones and murmurs softly, “Yes. I know,” those large, long-fingered hands clenching and unclenching as if Phil is trying to catch and keep the scorching trails upon his palm too.

 

<<< >>>

 

At the end of another long day on board the Helicarrier, Coulson finds Clint and their six-month-old baby girl in her room in their apartment. With his light blue tie unfastened around his neck, with a fond smile, he leans against the frame of the open door and listens to his beloved mate and Imogen having a tête-à-tête on the adult-sized bed (that they decided to add in after too many exhausting nights of staggering between the baby’s room and their bedroom in the middle of the night) that’s next to the crib.

“Hey, sweetpea, you wanna hear a super duper awesome bedtime story about a super duper awesome guy, hm?”

Clint is sprawled on his right side and propped up on one elbow while Imogen is on her back beside him, dressed in a black-and-purple onesie with exposed arms and feet. Coulson’s smile broadens when he sees it on his daughter. As he promised Clint during her birth, he had assigned R&D to produce a comfy, baby version of Clint’s Hawkeye costume that can stretch as she grows bigger. She looks absolutely endearing in it, the colors complementing her pink roses-upon-cream complexion and dark, fluffy hair and sparkling, blue eyes, just like they do for her blond daddy.

She gurgles and kicks her legs excitably, suckling one chubby fist as she stares up at Clint. Clint chuckles and grasps one of her chunky legs. He playfully pinches her little feet and tiny toes, chuckling again when she smiles and giggles.

“Okay, I’m gonna take that as a yes.” Clint shifts so that his burly upper arm is now resting on the bed and his head is propped up by his hand. “So once upon a time, a super duper awesome baby was born in a place called Waverly, Iowa. This super duper awesome baby had a mom and dad and a big brother, and for a little while, he was happy and everything was wonderful and fun because he didn’t know what the world was like then.”

Although the warmth in his eyes linger, Coulson’s smile wanes into something a little melancholy, like the last ray of sunshine before night falls. He knows Clint’s life story in visceral detail by now, most of it straight from Clint himself after they were bonded (and sometimes, he still feels like scraping up the remains of two certain Alpha bastards and bringing them back to life just to slay them again). But, to hear Clint tell it to their daughter like this is something different, something even more … fragile. Something that makes him want to scoop up Clint and their baby in his arms and never let them go.

“Then he grew older, and he found out that having a mom and dad doesn’t mean that everything’s always going to be okay. He found out that moms and dads can go away and never come back, and he found out that big brothers can do the same thing too.” Clint grasps one of Imogen’s legs again and strokes her shin with his fingers while she continues to stare up at him with captivated eyes. “But then he joined a _circus_!” He gently shakes her leg. “Yeah, he joined a circus that had pretty horses and funny clowns and a really nice, old Russian lady who could tell the future! Isn’t that cool?”

Coulson stays silent where he is, his eyes honed on Clint’s appealing face. Clint is clean-shaven today, a facial state that Clint favors much more since giving birth to Imogen despite being able to grow facial hair again. Clint loves to nuzzle Imogen’s face and blow raspberries on her roly-poly arms and soft belly. Beard stubble, he thinks, will be too coarse for her baby skin.

“And do ya know who the star of the circus was?” Clint pastes on an exaggerated vainglorious expression and strokes the blond spikes of his lush hair. “That’s right, that super duper awesome baby who grew up into a super duper awesome guy with golden, perfect hair and a fit, muscular, perfect body - _sshh_ , it’s not bragging, stop laughing. You got my genes, ya know, so I’m just telling you what you got too, that’s all!”

Coulson presses a fist to his pursed lips in order to suppress his own laugh. Imogen’s laughter is _infectious_ , a hiccup-like, sprightly sound from the belly that only amplifies as Clint laughs too and places a hand on her torso and rubs it briskly just the way she enjoys it.

“ _Anyway_ , for a while, the guy - let’s call him Hawkeye, although he wasn’t called that until he joined SHIELD, which is where Daddy and Papa work for Uncle Nick - was a star who had this _fabulous_ , purple masked costume and could shoot arrows in really cool, mind-blowing ways and he never, ever missed. He made the crowds go _wild_! The circus was always packed whenever his act was on, and because of that, the other stars in the circus wanted to be his friends too.”

At this, Coulson sees the gleam in Clint’s eyes cloud over. Clint rubs their baby girl’s torso with slower, lighter strokes.

“And for a while, a little while, he thought he found a real family. He thought he’d finally found a place where he belonged, where people would be good to him and not leave him. But, well … there are lotsa bad people out there in the world too, sweetpea. Bad people who do bad things to other people.”

Coulson, knowing that Clint knows he’s there (what with that tingle in the back of their heads before he even showed up in sight), is tempted to say something. He doesn’t, though. This is Clint’s story to tell to their daughter.

“So Hawkeye ran away after those bad people did bad things to him and tried to do more bad things. Now, some people are gonna say that running away isn’t a brave thing to do, but I think that’s bullsh-” Clint sucks in his lower lip and then says, “Bull _dung_.”

Coulson almost snorts aloud. Yeah, he and Clint have had to _subdue_ their cussing once Imogen started to babble at three months and make sounds in return when they spoke to her, Clint way more so. At six months, she is beginning to say specific sounds and no, neither he or Clint are keen on her first word being an expletive. (Clint has his money on her first word being ‘mothertrucker’ if Nick hangs around her any more than he already does.)

“Yeah, sometimes it’s the _only_ thing you can do, baby. Sometimes you gotta do things that make ya feel bad but will _save_ you. And ya know, things got better for Hawkeye after that. Sure, he had to resort to petty crime to survive. Sure, he didn’t have a mate or 2.5 kids or a house with a picket fence, but see, he always knew that wasn’t what he was destined to have and that was okay. He didn’t _want_ those things in the first place.” Clint shrugs, his eyes gleaming bright once more as he rubs Imogen’s belly and lets Imogen cling to his fingers. “Well, until he joined SHIELD and met a really, really super duper awesome guy who makes the world a better place every day just by turning up for work.”

Coulson’s affectionate, closed-lipped smile returns in full force, his eyes crinkling, his chest expanding with something hot and sweet and nourishing.

“But! But before Hawkeye met this really, really super duper awesome guy, SHIELD had to _catch_ him first, see? Hawkeye had caught the eye of the Big Bad Boss of SHIELD with the things he was doing, and the Big Bad Boss wanted Hawkeye to _work_ for him.” Clint shakes his head and makes a _tsk-tsk_ noise with his tongue. “Did you know it took _ten_ guys to catch him? And only after he got a big boo-boo to his leg? Even then, he still took down six guys on his own before they dragged him up to this gigantic ship in the sky.” Clint tickles Imogen’s belly, making her smile again. “Yeah, it’s the Helicarrier! You really liked being there, remember? In Papa’s office, watching the clouds go by?”

Coulson recalls being in Guatemala at the time of Clint’s capture, on an undercover mission with a couple of other agents, ignorant of Clint’s existence. Clint had been a SHIELD agent for at least three years before they were introduced to each other by Nick. It’s astonishing, now that he thinks about it, how he and Clint hadn’t crossed paths before then, how fate had kept them apart while they were so _close_ to meeting each other (and falling in love and mating and _bonding_ , getting married, even).

“But _anyway_ , where was I? Oh, yeah.” Clint rests his hand on their baby girl’s belly for her to cling onto once more. “Now at first, Hawkeye didn’t like being caught. He was a _hawk_ , sweetpea, that’s a big bird and big birds like being _free_ to fly. He didn’t like that he had to take orders from other people and write stupid _reports_ , but he _loved_ the archery range on the Helicarrier and that he got to use it any time he liked to test all kinds of cool arrows. So for a few years, he tried to behave himself. He really did. He’d found a place where he _really_ belonged, a place where people _respected_ him and were good, _loyal_ people.”

Coulson’s smile softens like Clint’s eyes do as Clint continues to gaze down at their baby who is utterly mesmerized by her daddy’s story.

“But the handlers he had? He just couldn’t get along with any of them. They said he had an _attitude problem_ and that he was _reckless_ and a _danger_ to other people, and ya know, Hawkeye didn’t like that. The _last_ thing he wants is for other people to be hurt because of him. He wants to _help_ people and do things to make the world a better place too, and he was really, _really_ loud about it. So one day, after his fourth handler couldn’t handle his _fabulousness_ anymore, the Big Bad Boss ordered him to meet him in his office. The Big Bad Boss wanted him to _meet_ somebody, and this guy was gonna be his new handler, some dude who was apparently so awesome that he’s got a _mountain_ named after him somewhere in Mongolia for saving a village full of kids and little old ladies.”

Coulson _almost_ interjects at this point, his mouth opening halfway before closing again. Okay, the part about him saving that village on the outskirts of Ulaanbaatar from being blown to hell by half a dozen oil-drum IEDs is true, but it’s not a mountain that’s his namesake. It’s a _hill_. Well, a very, very _big_ one behind the chieftain’s house, but still -

“So Hawkeye went to the Big Bad Boss’ office and he was all ready to meet this guy and he walked in like he _owned_ the place and … there he was. This really, _really_ super duper awesome guy in a navy, pinstriped suit, standing up to shake his hand. He was, like, the _hottest_ guy Hawkeye had ever seen in his whole _life_. He was like the yummiest, _juiciest_ steak on two legs with a giant helping of ‘oh my god, claim me now’ and ‘I want you to be my baby daddy’.”

Coulson presses a fist to his mouth again, grinning behind it even as his face sears. Oh, he remembers that moment very well, that moment when Clint swaggered in as if it was _his_ office instead of Nick’s, loose-limbed and wicked in that skintight Hawkeye outfit and _everything_ Coulson had ever desired in a man and no, he hadn’t given a damn that Clint smelled like a Beta. (But jesus, the joy he felt when he discovered later that Clint’s an _Omega_ instead, the _joy_.) He’d laid eyes on Clint and _boom_ , just like that, _just like that_ , he was a goner.

He knew even then that Clint was the one he wanted to be with for the rest of his life. The one he would love and cherish and hold for all of that life, no matter who or what he became.

“And when he opened his mouth, oh my _god_ , he had the _sexiest_ voice Hawkeye ever heard and he said, ‘I’m Agent Phil Coulson. I will be your _handler_ from now on,’” Clint says, waggling his eyebrows on the word ‘handler’. “Then Hawkeye shook his hand and, bing bang _boom_! Hawkeye was _gone_ , babe. He knew there would never be anyone else for him, ever. He knew he had found _the one_.”

Coulson chuckles aloud at last, pushing himself off the door frame to stand upright with his hands in the side pockets of his suit pants. He has to admit that was a rather good impression of him, and Imogen seems to find it hilarious, giggling like she is while kicking her legs.

“And guess what, sweetpea?” Clint says, dipping down until his face is just inches away from Imogen’s rosy one. “He’s your Papa! Can you believe that? Sometimes I _still_ can’t believe I’m so lucky that he’s _mine_.”

Imogen giggles again and stretches her chubby hands up to Clint’s face.

“Bah-boom!” Clint exclaims, nuzzling her face, and she giggles even more, her tiny fingers squeezing Clint’s cheek and tugging at Clint’s hair.

Coulson ambles towards the bed as Clint rises up on his elbows and murmurs to their baby, “I can’t wait to teach you how to shoot arrows and make things go bah-boom.”

“As long as it’s within a safe, secure environment, of course,” Coulson says, halting at the side of the bed and removing his tie and suit jacket. “And only when she’s at least sixteen years old.”

Clint gazes up at him with a deadpan face ruined by twinkling eyes, eyes that say everything Coulson’s yearned to since alighting at the door frame to watch his Omega mate and baby bond.

“You’re no fun at all,” Clint mutters, but Imogen, finally seeing Coulson, flails her chunky limbs with renewed vigor, an euphoric smile flashing across her round, sweet face.

Coulson smiles back at his little girl as he climbs onto the bed and lies on his side facing her and Clint. Imogen lets out a little squeal when he kisses her on the cheek and forehead. He snuffles her hair, inhaling her honeyed, gratifying scent and then kisses her on the cheek again. Clint laughs along with her when Coulson launches a rapid kiss attack along her bare, plump arm and on her chubby hand and clutching fingers. She kicks at the air as he nibbles on her fingers with his lips over his teeth. He nibbles her toes and soles next the same way and she laughs, she laughs and smiles and she is the most beautiful, charming, perfect baby he has ever seen in the whole universe.

“Papa’s cute aggression is flaring up again, sweetpea,” Clint says to Imogen, gazing at Coulson with amused eyes.

Imogen grabs Coulson’s nose with her right hand and squeezes it with a strength that belies its teeny size. He snorts, which prompts her to babble random sounds and touch his cheek with her other hand. After she lets go of his nose, he kisses both her hands and then lies fully down on his side with his head on a pillow. Clint has done the same, gazing at him over Imogen’s head.

“Hi, really, really super duper awesome guy,” Clint murmurs, his eyes still crinkled and shining. “How was your day?”

Coulson reaches over and across their quietening baby girl to caress Clint’s smooth lower jaw.

“It was all right. The usual staff meetings and rookie culling and endless paperwork.”

“Why, if I didn’t know better, honey, I’d swear you sound like you’re _bored_ with work.”

Coulson’s lips quirk at the sarcasm of Clint’s voice. At how _close_ Clint may be to hitting the truth. But it’s something he’ll ruminate about later, not now when he’s here with the two most important beings in his existence.

“Who knows. Maybe I _am_.” Coulson shifts his hand down to the side of Clint’s neck, feeling the stable pulse within it. “And you? Are _you_ bored out of your mind yet?”

Coulson had resumed working four months ago, but to his (and practically everyone else’s) surprise, Clint had extended his parental leave for many more months, citing the reason as ‘wishing to spend as much time as possible with his daughter in her first year of life’. Clint hadn’t cared that some of those months will be unpaid leave. (Not that Clint has anything to worry about, since Coulson will gladly support him and their baby even if Clint had no funds whatsoever.)

“Nope,” Clint replies, squirming nearer to Imogen who’s now motionless and drowsy, her arms stretched up along the sides of her head, her dewy eyes half-shut. “I’m too preoccupied with the grand canyon between my legs.”

Coulson and Clint share a facetious look, then break into low snickering in unison. Since Imogen’s birth, Clint has often jested about how he really has to walk bow-legged now and worry about his innards falling out through his birth canal (which is something Coulson hopes he never witnesses happening to _anybody_ ). The thing is, not only has Clint’s hole healed to become even _tighter_ , Clint’s genitals have come back down and grown back to their original sizes (an event that made Clint almost cry) and Clint’s recent ability to swiftly come multiple times in a row seems to be here to stay regardless of heat or not (a revelation that _did_ make Clint cry from the devastating, _unexpected_ tides of pleasure).

The (shaky) high-five they gave each other after an entire day of fucking was justified. Totally.

But they do miss Clint’s vir labia sometimes, it’s true.

“Everything’s fine, babe,” Clint murmurs here and now, clasping his forearm and stroking its length with one hand. “Really.”

“Once upon a time, staying indoors like this, you would have been bored out of your mind and climbing the _walls_ in a _day_ ,” Coulson says with a slight smile.

“Yeah, well.” Clint’s gaze flits down to their baby girl, whose eyes are now fluttering shut. “That was before her.”

When Clint glances up at him again, they smile at each other tenderly. They watch Imogen yawn and tumble into a deep sleep, her lips moving in a suckling motion now and then, her eyelids trembling as her eyes shift underneath them. Clint places his hand upon her torso again, feeling her little heart (that will grow so big like her Papa’s) beat under his fingers. Coulson watches Clint’s eyelids flutter with somnolence too. Watches Clint’s eyes shut, and feels Clint’s body go limp under his hand.

 _Oh_ , Coulson thinks as he rests his hand upon Clint’s over their beloved baby’s rising and falling chest, as he gazes on at his slumbering mate’s face exquisite in its peace, _I_ _’m home. I’m home_.

 

 

 

 

**Fin.**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _may_ post 'sections' of the story that I discarded / removed out of the final version, like more pregnant!sex and poor Clint suffering a hemorrhage after giving birth. We'll see!
> 
> And okay, two things: 
> 
> _"Hey, did you turn Clint into a woman / trans character with the whole vir labia thing?!"_  
> 
> Ah, no. Clint is definitely male and Omega throughout the entire story. I just added the vir labia thing as a twist to the pregnant male Omega trope.  
> 
> _"Since Clint is a badass SHIELD specialist agent who's already experienced so much physical suffering, shouldn't he just power through the childbirth and crack jokes and not even feel the pain?"_  
> 
> Pain's kind of a funny thing (unless you're the one suffering it, that is). Different people react differently to a variety of pain and their levels. I know a woman who's naturally given birth to five kids and yet felt that a deep, small cut to her finger was 'just as painful as childbirth'. I know another woman who can sit through being tattooed in the most sensitive areas without a peep and yet cried her eyes out during labor before getting an epidural. 
> 
> So as to whether Clint would scream or not during natural childbirth, I think that someone can be genuinely badass and tough and experience getting shot, stabbed, eviscerated, etc. and still find pushing out a 9-pound baby to be an excruciating endeavor. Ouch!
> 
> And yep, this is what Clint's and Coulson's baby looks like, at least to me:
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and for your comments and kudos! Much appreciated! 

**Author's Note:**

> Don't read further if you don't want to be spoiled of major events / scenes in the story!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \- A few times in the story, a past attempted rape and assault by Duquesne and Chisholm on Clint is briefly alluded to by a SHIELD agent and Clint himself. The details are far more about what Clint does in defense of himself to Duquesne and Chisholm.
> 
> \- During a one-on-one knife fight, Duquesne stabs Clint in the lower belly and mutilates Clint. Clint ends up needing an organ removed and receives damage to other organs too. There is discussion of infertility as a result.
> 
> \- Coulson kidnaps Duquesne while Duquesne is being transfered from one SHIELD detainment center to another, and then tortures Duquesne in revenge for seriously harming and almost killing Clint. Coulson eventually decapitates Duquesne and serves Duquesne's head to Clint on a silver platter.
> 
> \- There is a natural childbirth scene in the fourth last 'section' of Act III. If you're squeamish about descriptions of labor, screaming, the birth itself, etc. then just skip it to get to the Clint-and-Coulson-bond-with-baby part.


End file.
